#dragonborn x odahviing

[helgiafterdark]

[nerevar-quote-and-star]

Meet me at midnight to see how dark we can take this crackship

Only, not as dark as I thought it could be? Oh well, @elder-dragon-reposes REALLY liked it! I mean really.

ao3 | masterlist

Her footsteps on the stair were not the first inkling he had of her presence in his tomb.

There was a shift in the air, a whisper through the stagnant corridors hissing of a presence that had not been in the halls of Forelhost since the Traitor was a young acolyte in the Order. But as alike as her presence was to that lir, there was something light that was entirely this being, this volaan that was all her own.

He would handle her. Did he not handle the Nordic invaders long ago?

"You know how you dealt with the last wave of volaan."

Froda's ghost sneers in his hollow ear, a draft that persisted in invading his chamber even after millennia. He snarls into the darkness, and silence falls again.

Tremors worble through the air, sometimes brushing the stones and at others, pressing against his ears. The volaan's encroachment into the catacombs was neither explosive nor vivid. If he weren't so attuned to the wards and runes of Forelhost, he would not have known she was there until it was too late.

Time passes. It creeps forward, frost covering the ground with the advancing winter. A chill curls down his withered spine, coiling in his chest with the harshness of a cold drake. He could taste the blizzard building in the air the closer the volaan came. He would last through her winter, just as he did others before.

"You call this outlasting the winter? It has broken you, wuth jul."

The whisper dissipates, but the growing chill does not. It permeates the stone so that frostbite threatens the dead nerves of his skin. The temperture continues to drop.

Hours pass.

Then, with a gust of icy wind, the doors open. The volaan arrives.

"Will you kill her, then?" Yes. "What a shame."

He prepared to rise, to release the ward sealing his sarcophagus, and burst into the room in a blaze of glory. But then Froda's words touched him. Why was it a shame?

Power coiled in the air, the crick shrrr hiss of ice crystals drifting through the air and shattering on the dusty stone. Dusty stones in a broken temple at the heart of a fallen city, dedicated to dead gods and a forgotten religion. Long ago, was Forelhost not the last remnant of the Dragon Cult's power? And now what was left, but dust and bone and shattered stone? Yes, yes, it would be a shame. It would be a great shame to meet such power, only to incinerate it.

Rahgot would not join the ashes on the altar to his god.

He feels her skirt the room, her chill pushing back against the heat of his wards. Closer and closer she came to him. What to do when she arrived?

Her hand on the lid was a shard of arctic ice. In life, he was familiar with the clever men and mages' magic lurking under their skin, leaving tell tale signs of each person's strngths--and weakness--in the arcane. But hers was not subtle; it was a raging storm.

IF he concentrates hard enough, he can recall a similar potency in the Traitor's presence, electric and biting in its intensity.

Both are a storm.

Dovahkiin . . .

His whisper is kiss of warmth through the coolness. He can feel her hesitate above him, and he thinks he moved in error. She was leaving. He should have remained silent.

But then the lid is sliding, solid and heavy, to the floor. Snowflakes flutter into his sarcophagus, and Rahgot sees the Dovahkiin for the first time.

He is struck by her resemblance to the Traitor, chestnut curls framing an almost golden face, wherein sat a pair of eyes so blue that the sky would weep with envy.

But yet, there is a softness in her face that wasn't present in the Traitor's, a light in the eye and draw of the mouth that spoke of exhaustion and perseverance. Where the Traitor was full of pride, this woman, this fahlil was patiance.

Where the Traitor came and went with the flash of a summer storm, hers was the long cold that seized Atmora and threatened to outlast the world.

"She'll outlast you."

But Froda's warning goes ignored.

Her hand is on the staff. Though he has not wielded it since beyond the reach of mortal memory, its heart of flame still burns like an inferno. Her mouth purses when her hand grips the stave, its heat daring to thaw the permafrost under her skin.

It is as she draws her hand back, steam curling around her finger tips, that he takes the staff in familiar hands and rises from the grave.

The Dovahkiin stumbles back, her ring-clad hand held to her chest as his presence looms before her. He can taste the power trailing from his staff to her hand.

It is quick. It is almost easy. Vahlok did not have such a fortunate confrontation. Rahgot is up and over her in a vengeful blaze.

She drops to the floor, not in defeat, but to escape his fire, and Rahgot descends--

--but she is not there. In a whirl of smoke, he turns to find her poised on the side of his coffin, ice gathered in her hands. Her face is hard, her eyes frozen.

YOL TOR SHUL! "FO KRAH DIIN!"

The songs of fire and ice meet and burst against each other, dousing the chamber in a blanket of steam. He hears her gasp at the heavy air.

But a lich does not need air, nor does he need to see.

As she stumbles backward into his sarcophagus, Rahgot falls on her, a smothering shadow. She screams when his spidery hands find the collar of her armor and the pillar of golden skin above it.

"FEIM—"

But his hand crushes her windpipe, silencing the Thu'um in her mouth. Her eyes are blown wide, sightless in the dark.

How simple, how exquisite it was to have a creature so full of power within his hands.

She is bound up in a hard shell of silver ice, but Rahgot would see to that later. His hand still on her throat, he traces the other over her face, cresting over sharp elven bones and soft mannish cheeks. He reaches her ear, and feels a tremor in her throat when his finger catches on the leaftip.

Long ago, they said Traitor's power was born from dovah sos in his veins. At the time, Rahgot did not, would not believe such a blasphemy to the gods. But over the long ages in rumination with nothing but Froda's ghost and the mountain winds to haunt his ears, he pondered the possibility of a true Dovahkiin.

Now he believed, and now he holds one in his hands. A goddess in a mortal's skin. The power of the gods could be, would be his!

"You are a fool, Rahgot."

His hiss is ghastly, banishing Froda's ghost to the fringes and washing over the Dovahkiin's face in a cloud of decay. She gags beneath him. In retaliation, he pinches her ear between two bony fingers, and she chokes, gasping.

But it wouldn't do to kill the goddess of his new religion before he's preached his message. He would seal her in his own coffin as he prepared his ascension to a new priesthood.

His wards hold the lid in place, sealing the Dovahkiin without suffocating her. He would return for her soon, but first—

There is a gasp, a brush of frost, and then from the confines of the coffin, a whispy voice Shouts, her Thu'um penetrating through stone and death.

Rahgot rounds on the tomb, pivoting from his place on the stairs from his funerary dias. But it is too late. The Shout has burst from the air into the bones of Nirn itself.

"OD AH VIING!"

Odahviing tugs at a distant thread in the long tapestry of Rahgot's memory with the strength of iron tongs pulling teeth.

Odahviing. His old master.

But how did—?

"You've sworn fealty to your own doom."

Froda's taunting voice dances in his ears as thunder rumbles in the distance. The sarcophagus on the dias is still, but dust and debris fall from the ceiling like rain. Rahgot draws back, his staff raised to meet whatever new being threatened his sanctum.

"You know what's coming."

There was a crack! followed by a heavy crash. Dust choked the air, bitter in the cold and lingering smoke steam. Then, early morning light filters in, thin and golden. In its midst is a horned head and sharpened claw. Claws that would destroy Forelhost.

"Rahgot, mey! My teeth to your neck!"

THe roof was gone, and morning sun flooded the chambers, catching on the dust motes like magicka in the air. The smoke and steam dispersed quickly, and Rahgot, for the first time in nearly five thousand years, saw his god face to face.

Of all the dov, Odahviing was always a fierce and active ruler. Always quick to action and swift to speak his thoughts. Rahgot always knew his recklessness was why he fell in the war with the Nords. But before, Odahviing was a stalwart supporter of Alduin Thuri. His priesthood followed the example set by the High Priests in Bromjunaar. He sent lesser dov to heed Alduin's call against the Traitor.

Yet here he was, heeding the call of a weak fahlil with the blood of the gods. Why—?

But Rahgot could not ponder it any longer. His master was in the chamber. A large, brilliantly formed dovah, Odahviing's size forced Rahgot to sweep back across the cracked floor, all too aware of the heat and strength of a dragon's body. But his god did not look at him.

Odahviing's claws were prying open the lid. It fell away and he lowered his snout. Rahgot could just see small golden hands grasp at the crimson scales.

"Odahviing, I can't breathe—"

Her voice, faint, speaks a language Rahgot doesn't know. But whatever she says to the dovah turns the horned head in his direction. Odahviing is snarling.

"Mey lir, Rahgot! Ruth hi!" Odahviing, thur—

But the jaws are on him. As his bones are broken by his god's teeth, Rahgot sees the Dovahkiin sitting up. in his coffin, her arms draped over the side as she tries to catch her breath. Her hair is a whirlwind and her eyes crystal. What a ravishing goddess she would have made!

Her eyes catch his through the slits of his mask. Her face is as green as the cold orichalcum. But then her mouth turns up, a sneer, and she resembles the Traitor so utterly that Rahgot, for the first time in countless ages, grew truly cold.

"Save his mask for me, won't you, darling?" "Geh, Judsedov."

Rahgot doesn't know what the Dovahkiin says to Odahviing, but his god calls the fahlil the Queen of the Dov. The Queen.

His last thought was that she was already a goddess, and Odahviing, a god in his own right, was her loyal priest.

Froda's laughter is the last thing Rahgot hears over the rumble of the dovah's throat and the crunch of his own bones.

When the mask falls to the floor, bereft of its priest, it is several long minutes before Leara can muster the strength to retrieve it. Even then, Odahviing offers his head to help support her, and he guides her across the floor.

Picking it up, Leara fingers the cold orichalcum, tired.

"What happened?" "Well . . ."

She trailed off, warm and comfortable against Odahviing but embarrassed to continue. At Odahviing's gentle huff, she relents.

"He caught me off guard. I tried to stand on the coffin for leverage, and then the bloody lich tripped me up." "Lech." "What was that?" "Nothing, Kunziiyol."

Sighing, Leara turns her face into the warmth of Odahviing's snout.

"Let's go home."

Guiding the Dragonborn to the safe hollow at the base of his neck, Odahviing takes flight, leaving the ruins of Forelhost and the Dragon Cult behind.

"Drat, I forgot about the Word Wall!" "Ruth, vahdin."

fin

[cryptid-called-ash]

Breyth: let’s play a fun game! It’s called ‘Sahrotaar or Vilkas’. I give you actual quotes I’ve heard Mira say, and you tell me if it’s something he said to his dragon or his fiancé.

Alduin:

Farkas:

Odahviing:

Vilkas:

Sahrotaar:

Miraak: I don’t like this game.

[downtherabbithole-tumbleedition]

Sorry for the late reply.

But can I request a playtonic yandere Alduin x daughter Dragon Born reader

Like the reader Dragon soul is his daughter that died years ago but got reborn as a Dragon born dark elf. And when he realized it his daughter reborn he trys to trun her down a dark path and make him Join his side. Please.

And if you can't do it I can think of something else. This just been on my mind lately

Mockingbird

(Yandere! Platonic! Father! Alduin x Dragonborn! Reader)

“And if you ask me to

Daddy’s gonna buy you a mockingbird, I’ma give you the world

I’ma buy a diamond ring for you, I’ma sing for you

I’ll do anything for you to see you smile.

And if that mockingbird don’t sing

And that ring don’t shine

I’d go back to the jeweller who sold it to ya

And make him eat every carat, don’t fuck with dad.”

- Mockingbird, Eminem.

Dragons did not love. Love was for mortals, for lesser beings who lived only a short life where they could freely give their heart to another with no thought of what eternity meant.

Alduin was as old as time itself, the all mighty world eater who cared only for the power he held. Nothing could sway his cold, black heart - not his brothers, the female dovah he laid with, of the endless amount of mortals he devoured.

But you were so tiny, so fragile - one of his nails would have been enough to end your vulnerable little life. And yet, he found himself not desiring your death, perhaps even feeling sick at the thought of it.

The mortal form was an ancient secret among dragon kind, often used to communicate with dragon priests and blend in among mortals when necessary. Alduin despised to use it and thought dragons who used it often to be weak. However, a benefit of such a form was an easier and faster birth for female dragons, perhaps safer as well.

In dragon form, the female would pass the egg as soon as her body allowed, forcing her to guard her offspring for as long as it took to hatch. It could be an especially daunting time, even more so when the female and male hadn’t mated for life. As distasteful as it was, pregnancy was a far safer process for both the mother and offspring if she stayed in her mortal form until the young could leave the womb.

Alduin had never found a dovah worthy enough to be deemed his life partner, but it was awfully satisfying to see how many would throw themselves at his feet just to be mounted by him. Your mother had been one of those - just another female Alduin had fucked and discarded, most likely not even bothering to satisfy her. He had done it countless times, nothing should have been different.

And yet, somehow, his seed had taken root in her womb and made you.

When she came again at his feet, she was foolish enough to believe the seed in her womb would force Alduin to make her his mate.

“Your young is inside me!” She had exclaimed, clutching her stomach, still in her distasteful mortal form. “You and I shall be bound for life!”

He had laughed her at then, a cruel and malicious sound that had snuffed any hope from her eyes, leaving only fear. Alduin did not tolerate insubordination, planning to kill her and the infernal young that grew inside her.

Odahviing, his general and right hand man, had stopped him - much to Alduin’s rage. The general had claimed that killing her would be foolish when Alduin needed an heir, and she seemed the only dovah that had ever been able to carry Alduin’s young successfully.

Alduin was not convinced, countering that he would never cease to exist and, therefore, no heir was needed. Odahviing had his reply, however, stating something along the lines of the bloodline needing to spread if Alduin wanted to rule other worlds.

Although he found it suspicious that Odahviing was fighting so hard to keep the offspring alive, Alduin humoured him - both from the begrudging urge to have young, and morbid curiosity to see if the female would even survive carrying the world eater’s child.

Just as Alduin had suspected, the female did not survive the birth. How could she when you carved your way out from her insides, leaving only a bloody and mangled mess in her place? Begrudgingly, Alduin felt the prick of pride of his young being entering the world with blood on her hands.

He’d planned to kill you, he truly had… but then you looked at him with eyes as red as his own, your cries calming immediately at his touch. So delicate, so trusting.

Every mortal disgusted him but, there you were, born in your mortal form and… disgustingly adorable.

Tomorrow, he told himself every day when the sun set, failing once again to rid you from the earth. Tomorrow the girl will die. But you never did and, before he knew it, you were talking, walking on your own two feet and hanging off the world eaters wings and horns as if he couldn’t kill you in a breath.

“Can we fly now?” You’d always ask him, picking up the ancient language easily from constant interactions with Odahviing and Parthunax. They were the only other living souls he trusted around you, and even that had very quick limits.

“Entitled girl,” he’d grumble, annoyed at your constant requests at him. But, by the end of the day, you were on his back and he was gliding through the air. “I will throw you off if you do not hold on,” he’d threaten. That did not affect you, however, continuously throwing your arms in the air.

Supposedly, you grew bored of “tame” flights in the air, wanting to find your own wings. Alduin’s heart was in his throat when he no longer felt the tiny wait on his back, watching with wide eyes as you plummeted to the ground.

He roared, loud enough to disturb the mountains, chasing after you as fast as his wings would allow. Thank Akatosh he had caught you before you hit the ground. Alduin doubted the world wanted to know what he’d do if he had lost you.

“Are you a FOOL?!” He’d yelled in anger as soon as you arrived home, smoke coming from his mouth due to the rage that rang through him.

“I just wanted to fly, like you,” you replied, far too calm for someone who had practically been on death’s doorstep.

Initially, Alduin had been enraged and frustrated that you had never turned to your dovah form - your true form. The world eater found himself constantly questioning what value you held if you remained in a lesser mortal form ever, wondering if he should kill you and try again.

However, he very quickly became thankful that you seemed unable to become a dragon - after all, you couldn’t leave him if you were entirely reliant on his protection, right? When you grew up and no longer desired to stay by his side at all times, he could simply lock you up in the highest point of the world, away from the all the dangers and unknowns of the world. Your only visitor and protection being Alduin.

After your little jumping stunt, he pondered locking you away from the world early.

“I’m sorry,” you had told him that night, hiding under his wing as you always did when you were scared or sad. “I won’t do it again.”

No, his plan would wait; you weren’t even trying to get away from him yet, why should he make you hate him so soon?

Alduin did not know gentleness or love or affection but he tried his very best to be those things with you, because you relied on him and were the only thing in this world that wasn’t afraid of him. If dragons loved one thing aside from themselves, it was their treasure, and you were the most precious treasure in the world.

But all good things come to an end and any remorse Alduin had inside him was ripped out when the mortals rebelled.

When they took you from him.

He had been so distracted with their rebelling - forcing his hand to the point of anger - that he left his largest vulnerability opened. Someone among Alduin had betrayed him and you were stolen from him. His blood turning to ice when he realised his most precious treasure was gone.

Relentlessly, Alduin and his army had searched the earth for you, burning cities and devouring armies in his unbridled rage. Until you were returned to him, the mortals would know fear like never before.

But when he found you, your head had been stuck on a pike, hanging up like a trophy in one of the mortal camps.

The world burned.

By the time the elder scroll had been used, most of the world had already been destroyed - abolished and devoured by Alduin’s sorrowful rampage, the dragon king running entirely on revenge.

A small part of him wished the mortals had just killed him so he could once again see his precious treasure.

———

About 5000 years later…

They called you a cursed child.

About ten years ago, you had been found by a mercenary, wandering around in the snow in one of Skyrim’s most isolated and dangerous places. Thankfully, he had been one of those honourable mercenaries (as opposed to those who would have sold you) and took you to an orphanage.

You couldn’t have been any older than eight. It wasn’t exactly out of the norm for the people of Skyrim to abandon their children at an orphanage, but a child surviving the harsh dangers of the mountains for divines knew how long… now that was strange. Stranger when you held no memories of your life or family, not even a name.

What really set you aside from the others, however, were your blood red eyes.

Perhaps the mercenary - having seen all sorts of strange things across Skyrim - thought nothing of them but the people at the orphanage certainly had opinions.

“She’s a demon!” One caretaker had exclaimed, pointing at you with a trembling finger and wide fearful, eyes.

“Kill the vampire!” Another had demanded, believing whole-heartedly you were a blood sucker.

It wasn’t long before the guards had been called, many wanting to see you hung for being a “demonic child”. Luckily, the mercenary had vouched for you, explaining that he had traveled with you for weeks and you hadn’t harmed him. As it was, the guards wrote off the caretakers as “emotional women” and left you unharmed - not without some searing glares, however.

Even if they couldn’t have you burned at the stake, the orphanage wouldn’t accept you and they were under no legal obligation to. So, the mercenary took you to Riften at the temple of Mara - where everyone was reasonably tolerable - and the two of you parted ways.

Priest Maramal was nice enough, being a Redguard in Skyrim he was more than used to jeers and harassment thrown his way. You couldn’t complain about the temple, not when you were given shelter, food, and a bed - which was a lot more than some of the people in Skyrim - but you couldn’t sit still, something in your bones told you to explore, to conquer.

By thirteen, you had pickpocketed earned enough money to leave the temple of Mara.

Skyrim was rough, but you adapted fairly easily. You’d always been strong, even as a child, fast too. Due to your sharp tongue (that Maramal often said you needed to hold if you didn’t want to end up dead), you wound up in a lot of scrapes. If you couldn’t fight your way out of them, you could usually run away.

You circled back to Riften soon enough, gaining entry to the Thieve’s Guild due to light feet and quick fingers. You thought you had found a family within the guild but when you were partnered with Vex and there was a spiky situation… she left you for dead. You got out alive - because you always did - but there was an anger towards the Thieve’s Guild you couldn’t contain. You didn’t go back but, one day, you planned to get you revenge.

At sixteen, you’d somehow stumbled your way to getting Astrid’s attention, granting you entry into the Dark Brotherhood family.

It was different from the guild - somehow warmer, more like a family. Astrid was like an older sister, Nazir like an uncle, Veezera like a cranky grandpa. You’d never felt so loved.

But Astrid set you up and, before you knew it, you were in a wagon trailing to the execution block. It didn’t matter; two families had betrayed you (three if you count the first one that abandoned you) and you had nothing left in your heart.

You witnessed something scarier than death that day, however - fear incarnate. Dragons had always been legends but you never believed you’d see one so close. So angry.

Death wasn’t ready for you, it seemed, because you got away.

Not long after, you killed a dragon and absorbed its soul, the myth of the Dragonborn reviving with the dragons. How amusing it was, to watch those nords be outraged at the thought of the “cursed child” being the living version of their most worshipped legend.

They all wished to be the Dragonborn, and yet that honour was given to a girl with blood red eyes and hatred in her heart.

The Greybeards were boring and the Blades were annoying but Parthunax, well, he piqued your interest. Often times, he spoke to you like you were an old friend rather than a naive Dragonborn he had never met before.

It only became clear when Alduin attacked you and Parthunax on the throat of the world, his teeth and flames out for blood.

“Your arrogance will get you killed,” Maramal had often said, when you thought you could do anything. Maybe you should have listened more.

Stupidly, you thought you could defeat Alduin easily. You were, after all, the one thing that could kill him, right? That’s what was foretold so what did you have to be afraid of?

You had used the Dragonrend shout on Alduin, forcing the world eater to the ground. Parthunax had yelled at you to stop but you ran at the black dragon anyways, sword at the ready to slash his throat. It seemed Alduin had adapted much quicker to the shout, though, catching your sword in his teeth and flying up into the sky.

He dropped you.

Honestly, it was a little humiliating that he didn’t even have to use fire or anything of significance… all he had to do was render you useless by dropping you.

Your helmet fell from your face as you fell, unfortunately giving Alduin a perfect view of your helpless and fearful face.

His eyes are red, like mine, you thought, mind trying to escape the thoughts of death. You wanted to scold yourself for being pathetic when a tear fell down your face, realising your life was over before you did anything significant.

Or so you thought.

———

You woke up with a pounding headache, which was strange considering you didn’t recall falling asleep. You groaned with grogginess, snuggling into the comfortable bed.

Wait… I don’t have a comfortable bed.

You bolted upright, heart pumping with fear as you took in the unfamiliar surroundings. The room was huge, larger than courtroom in the Palace of Kings, made entirely of stone and gold. There were books, furniture, decor but it was all extremely mismatched and unfamiliar. As if from an ancient and unknown time.

The oddest thing, however, was that there were only three walls. There was no wall in front of her bed, only a hole big enough for a dragon to fit through.

Why did Alduin save me? You wondered. What could he gain from bringing me here?

You held back a gasp when you heard a noise and saw a man sitting in one of the chairs, staring at you with eyes as red as blood. He stood when your eyes met, taller than anyone else you had ever seen, armour pitch black and spiky.

He looked oddly familiar.

Idly, he looked around the large room with an almost reminiscent gaze. “I should have locked you in here from the beginning,” he muttered with an impossibly deep voice, barley loud enough for her to hear.

You didn’t know what he was talking about but you knew you needed to get out of there. On your left, you spied a gold dagger - not extremely sharp but it should have been enough to injure him.

“Do not try that,” he rumbled when you made the slightest movement, making you whip your head back to him. “Even if you could hurt me, you are far too high up to ever escape safely, little one.”

“Why am I here?” You demanded.

He looked at you then, and you realised, without a doubt, that he was Alduin. That only made the situation even more confusing.

“You are safe here,” he said, as if it was nothing less than a fact. “You can despise me but I will not risk your safety for your happiness ever again.”

“Aren’t you the one who wants me dead?” You questioned dryly, still internally gawking at the fact you were having a conversation with the world eater.

The bastard chuckled. “You really have no idea, do you?”

You only have him a confused look.

“Why would I ever kill my only child?”

Your heart dropped to your stomach, blood turning to ice at his words.

“You’re lying.

“An immortal being has no reason to lie.”

You raced to the gold dagger, gripping it in your hand and throwing at Alduin. He barley needed to move to dodge it, the puny attack having no affect on him.

He left after that, claiming you needed to “calm yourself”. You spent hours exploring the place, restlessly searching for a way out that wouldn’t leave you plastered on the ground.

You didn’t know how long you had been there but eventually, he had come back and you attacked him once more, making him leave again. That cycle repeated itself until you were tired, disheartened by how unaffected he was.

“What do you want from me?” You asked him one day, when you had curled into yourself out of pure exhaustion. He had no answer.

Your numbing limbo changed one day, though. Your armour, light as it was, was stiffening your joints. You stripped out of it, leaving you in the simple clothes you had underneath.

Alduin visited you, like normal, but when you turned your back to him, he roared in anger and his eyes glowed red.

“Who did this to you?” He demanded, voice deeper and louder in his dragon form.

You were confused for a moment, having sported no knee injuries since being abducted. But then you remembered the deep, numerous scars on your back - a reminder of Astrid’s intense training. She once said it was necessary if you were to become strong and you thought she cared about you… but now you wondered if she just always hated you.

Despite yourself, you told Alduin. He was the world eater - evil and deadly, the very thing you were supposed to kill… but he was also the only being who had ever looked upon your wounds, your suffering, and given a damn. And, if he was to he believe?d, he was your father, why shouldn’t you tell him?

It was a strange relief to tell someone else your woes, to unleash the many stories of sufferings and betrayal you had faced. By the end of it, you had tears down your face.

Alduin said nothing, oddly calm. Perhaps, he didn’t care.

“Get on.”

You looked up at him with wide eyes, confused as to what he meant.

“Get on my back.”

Still confused, you listened to him, hauling yourself up onto his back and grasping at his spikes so you didn’t fall.

Flying was exhilarating, freedom like you had never known it. You had the urge to spread your arms and feel the wind but Alduin snapped at you when you did.

“Where are we going?” You asked, having to yell so you could be heard over the wind.

“To get revenge.”

When you had told him what had happened to you, it wasn’t your intention for him to burn down Riften. And by all accounts, you should’ve climbed off his back and fought him, made him stop. But… no one in Riften gave a half damn about you. They saw you as the cursed child, a blight on Skyrim.

There was terrible feeling of glee as you watched the wooden houses burn.

You hunted down the Dark Brotherhood after that, adorning your armour and sword, taking a great joy in watching Astrid choke on her own blood.

You knew this wasn’t what the Dragonborn was made more, quite the opposite, but could you be considered the hero of Skyrim when Skyrim hated you? When all you had been given was betrayal and suffering?

You didn’t just let Alduin get away with drowning the cities in fire and blood, you helped him.

The Blades watched in horror as their noble hero was tainted with the blood of the innocent, the Greybeards mourning the prodigy that never was.

Maybe you should have felt guilt but you didn’t really give a damn.

Your blood told you to conquer, so that’s what you did.

———

Alduin feared his daughter would forever be corrupted with ideas of killing him, that she had been manipulated to the point of no return.

Perhaps he should have thanked Skyrim for being so horrible to her - what was it they said? The child that is not embraced by the village will burn it down Yo feel it’s warmth.

The world eater was filled with pride as he watched you slaughter the mortals, the lesser beings who should have known better than to lay a finger on you. If his pride allowed him, he would have thanked Odahviing for making him keep you alive.

Alduin savoured these moments of rage and fire, devouring with his daughter at his side…. Because it would never happen again.

When you had had your revenge and Skyrim had paid the price for disrespecting you, he’d take you back to that tower and ensure you never left.

Perhaps you’d go back to hating him but how could he risk it? How could he risk losing you after he just got you back? Akatosh had given him a gift of mercy in bringing you back to life, and it was not a gift Alduin would waste.

Perhaps in a few centuries, when you were strong enough to defend yourself and smart enough not to be betrayed, you could go free.

No. Alduin truly didn’t believe he could willingly let you back to those wolves in such a vulnerable state. When you could leave on your own, when you had completed your transformation into a dovah, Alduin would do nothing to stop you from conquering the world yourself.

Of course, Alduin prayed to Akatosh that day would never come.

——

I don’t know how that was but I hope you enjoyed. I feel like I rushed the ending a bit lol.

I took some creative liberty with your suggestion so sorry about that.

[blood-darkened-moon]

The Elder Scrolls

Morrowind Sotha Sil | Almalexia | Vivec | Indoril Nerevar | Voryn Dagoth/Dagoth Ur | King Dumac | Kagrenac

Ash Zombie | Ash Ghoul | Ash Vampire

Oblivion Hero of Kvatch | Mannimarco | Mankar Camoran | Lucien Lachance | Banus Alor | Arquen | Vicente Valtieri | Teinaava | Ungolim | Ocheava | Haskill

Skyrim The Dragonborn | Cicero | Night Mother | Astrid | Babette | Ancano | Ondolemar | Elenwen | Estormo | Rulindil | Agent Lorcalin | Neloth | Miraak | Serena | Paarthurnax | Odahviing | Durnehviir | Alduin | Draugr

TEOS Vanus Galerion

Daedric Princes Hermaeus Mora | Sheogorath/Skooma Cat | Jyggalag | Clavicus Vile/Barbas | Hircine | Molag Bal | Meridia | Peryite | Sanguine | Boethiah | Azura | Mephala | Vaermina | Nocturnal | Namira | Mehrunes Dagon | Malacath

Others Altmer | Dunmer | Daedra | Long-Tailed Tit

Groups/Ships Nerevoryn | Almsivi | Vivec x Molag Bal | Vivec x Almalexia | Nerever x Almalexia

[agrastyrashcroft]

Fire and Ice || Dragonborn OC x Odahviing || Chapter Two

Story Summary: Alduin was slain one year ago by the Dragonborn of my age, Elayne Moorfield. The world was forever thankful for her heroism, and acknowledged her as the realm’s greatest hero. However, for Elayne herself, life wasn’t as steady. Plagued by nightmares of that fateful final battle, she struggled to live a normal life. Here, she recounts her experiences with me, and her peculiar romance with an unlikely being.

Chapter Summary: Odahviing answers Elayne’s call. The two embark on a small adventure, and journey across the land to Winterhold. There, she inquires on an old friend…

Author’s Notes: Anything written in italics should be considered part of a flashback. Furthermore, anything written in bold is Dovahzul, and all translations will be provided at the end. From here on out, anything written below a gif on a Fire and Ice related post will be written in third person, past tense.

Warnings: Spoilers for Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim (but we both knew that, right?), mentions of PTSD, brief mentions of death

Word Count: 3.1k

MINORS DNI

Time was, in essence, an ever-flowing phenomenon. What was the past, shall remain. What is the present, shall be. What will be the future, shall prevail. The persistent flow of time was unstoppable, even now, as Elayne stood among the grasses. She was as oblivious to Odahviing’s response as anyone; not even she could know if he’d answer. As the minutes crawled on, she mistook the flapping of bird wings as her ally. A chill breeze crept up her calves, whistling among the branches of juniper berry trees. Silence was all that lingered, now.

Until it didn’t. A loud, thunderous roar swelled in the distance, echoing through the valley of the Reach. Goosebumps pricked her skin in anticipation as she waited even more. Soon after, the familiar beating of large, leathery wings could be heard, cutting through the skies of Tamriel. Odahviing was coming, after all. It didn’t take long for his large, scaled figure to slowly appear in the sky above her, flying into her line of sight. As he flew closer, coming in at around a few hundred feet away or so, she could see him.

He hadn’t changed at all. Time didn’t touch dragons the same way as men or mer. They were, after all, endless beings of immense strength and power. Odahviing’s scales were as ghoulishly red as she remembered, mimicking the appearance of mortal blood. His wings were a mishmash of blues and purples, while his sharp talons resembled swords. Elayne eagerly watched as he finally began to land in front of her, the wind currents picking up loose leaves. Wisps of her red, curly hair briefly floated, before tumbling down to frame her face once more. The great dragon stood before her now, in his grandeur, peering into her mortal eyes.

No words were spoken, at first. Instead, the two stared at one another. Elayne, tired of face and meek of arm, smiled ever so slightly. She’d grown weary of her life, since he last saw her. Perhaps Odahviing could tell, as his glistening, wild eyes never left her. He’d spent the last year of his newfound life plundering where he could, gradually building a trove of treasure within his new home: a cavern high within the Jerall Mountains. Comparatively, the red-winged dragon and The Last Dragonborn used their time differently. However, one simple fact remained. Regardless of what happened in the year that had passed, the two were reunited.

“Hail, Thuri. You have summoned me. I have long wondered when you would. Tiid lost vod fah mu laat tinvaak.” For such a large, menacing beast, he spoke softly, and astutely. Odahviing bowed his head, then slowly raised it again to meet her gaze. “I do not see danger here. Pah los drem.”

“You’re quite right. It’s been… far too long, my friend. Dii fahdon.” With a subtle slip of his mother tongue, Elayne allowed her rigid shoulders to relax. She waited for this day to come, despite her having full control of when it would happen. That was her error; one she solemnly regretted. “You promised to come when called, and to serve me in my time of need in battle. Today, your prowess isn’t required, but something else.”

She paused, the enthusiasm that once gave life to her face fading away. Her facade could only last for so long, and it was clear she was enervated in her resolve. Elayne’s gaze fell to the grass beneath her, unable to conjure the internal strength to pretend any longer. The Last Dragonborn fulfilled her destiny, but no one told her how to handle life after she was done. By the eight, no one warned her of the demons that would haunt her waking nightmares.

Meanwhile, the great dragon waited for her to continue. He vaguely understood how time affected mortals, but not in the same way as Paarthurnax. Odahviing was naive to what troubled his ally, unable to see what bothered her. He’d never admit to his ignorance, though, nor would he be incorrigible. Rather, he welcomed the lull in their conversation. She must need it, if she had to stop halfway through her request.

“Do you remember what you last said to me, before we flew to Skuldafn?” At long last, she resumed, and hesitantly looked at him. Elayne watched as Odahviing unabashedly grinned at her, his teeth showing and his tongue flicking in his maw. Hot steam poured from his nostrils, warming her skin.

“The freedom of the sky calls to you, Thuri. Orin fin Dovahkiin nis qahnaar fin lok.” It didn’t need to be said, but he was right. Odahviing knew it, too. All dragons were seduced by the sweet, sultry summons of the sky. Not even his ally was spared in this regard. He lowered his head, not out of reverence but to allow Elayne to sit upon him. “Tell me, where is it you wish to go? All of Skyrim is yours to behold. Pah do Keizaal los un.”

“You’re always right, aren’t you?” Excitement welled inside her stomach as he lowered his head for her, giving her access to sit in her old spot. Elayne didn’t waste much time, either, climbing on and balancing herself on him. As she did so, she squeezed her thighs against his neck, ensuring she wouldn’t fall off. Reaching for his second set of horns, she held them tight. It was exactly like the first time, when she needed him to escort her to Skuldafn. A relieved sigh escaped her, then. “Just like old times. Now then… I think those wizards in their college could use some thrill. All of those books must be boring them out of their minds.”

“Ol hi uth!”

In a matter of seconds, he took off from the ground, a flurry of boisterous winds erupting from his powerful wings. He soared high above, reaching a high enough altitude before flying off. Odahviing roared contentedly, which Elayne unintentionally felt beneath her legs. Turning her head back, her home—her sanctuary—swiftly faded away in the distance. This was the farthest she’d ever been from Hendraheim, and she wouldn’t give this up for anything else. Breaking the chains of her self-inflicted imprisonment, she was free. Temporary or not, she was liberated.

The flight itself was fast, and didn’t allow for much sight-seeing. Everything on the ground passed by in a blur. However, along the way, she did recognize some notable places, even if spotting them was all she could do. To her left, Elayne saw Karthwasten, then Whiterun to her right. Morthal, even, could be seen from the back of her ally. During the journey, the Throat of the World was always visible. It was the tallest mountain in Skyrim; it wouldn’t be too far-fetched to say everyone in the land could see it.

Soon after, they passed into the snowy region of Skyrim. The clear air chilled significantly, causing her to shiver. No snow hindered Odahviing’s flight, thank the gods, but the cold was still a nuisance. In hindsight, Elayne should’ve dressed better. They soon flew by Dawnstar, a city she didn’t visit much before she isolated herself from the world. Then, ahead, she saw Winterhold. It was a mere shell of the metropolis it once was, disheveled by The Great Collapse. A few buildings remained, but it wasn’t the same. Strangely, the great College of Winterhold remained untouched. It stood tall, the land beneath the campus severed from the rest of the city. The two pieces of terrain were only joined by an unsteady bridge, which led directly into the gates.

“It is desolate here! Ni orin fin dilon bo het!” Odahviing called back, circling the arcane college overhead. He wondered why she chose Winterhold, of all places, when he could take her to much more pleasant places. Why, even his own home was leaps and bounds ahead of this city.

“I know! That’s why I picked it!” She shouted back, removing one of her hands from his horns and gingerly rubbing the back of his head. Elayne peered down at the College of Winterhold, besotted with its glory. She wasn’t the sort to deal with magic, but she respected those who did. Arcana held importance in history; that couldn’t be denied. “Land on the tallest tower! Let’s see what these wizards think of us!”

He found the notion to be meaningless, but he obliged her command. Odahviing perched on the ledge of the tallest tower, as if he were a great hawk stalking his prey. Meanwhile, on top of him, Elayne was smiling again. She didn’t consider herself to be troublesome, or a disturber of the peace as she was once called by a certain Maven Black-Briar, but she enjoyed having fun. If she had to make her own, so be it.

Down below, the wizards attending the college already noticed the dragon flying overhead. Initially, they paid no mind, but now that he landed? It was a slight issue, only because the apprentices were frightened. The higher ranking scholars and teachers gathered together in the courtyard, helplessly staring up. The Arch-Mage, Savos Aren, was also there, and recognized the red-haired heroine on the dragon’s neck. To put it simply, he was annoyed. Magically projecting his voice, he attempted to call to her:

“Elayne Moorfield! Will you get down from there?! You’re frightening my students!” Savos’ tone dripped with toxic agitation, his aged face contorted in anger. “If you have business with us, then speak to us yourself! Leave the dragon out of this!”

“You hear that? They want to talk to me.” She mused, chuckling to herself. Elayne cleared her throat, and with the power of her Thu’um, she responded to him. “Very well! Allow my companion some space to land in the courtyard!”

“You heard her! Everyone move back! Back, I say!” Savos commanded his compatriots, who obeyed without question. Every wizard in the vicinity gave ample space, running to the exterior walls and pressing themselves against it. The Arch-Mage didn’t move, however, remaining where he stood. Not that it mattered; he was mostly out of the way.

“Go ahead and land below.” Elayne’s tender hand moved away from his head and back to the horn she originally gripped, readying herself for him to take off again. “I didn’t think a cold welcome from these wizards would bring me any joy, but alas. It feels good to be back.”

“As you command, Thuri.”

He didn’t dare comment on the offhand comment she made. What did Elayne mean, ‘it feels good to be back’? She never left. Her presence in Skyrim was felt throughout the lands, as he could recall himself. Odahviing remembered how commoners he pillaged cried out for their heroine to save them; they begged the divines to send her to their aide. However, she failed to come. That part, specifically, stuck out to him. She never struck him as the type to cower from battle, especially in the name of Skyrim’s people. Was he incorrect?

The truth escaped him, then. He obeyed her command, flying up once more, only to lower himself on the ground beneath them. The courtyard of the College of Winterhold was almost a sight worth seeing, with its grand statue of the late Arch-Mage Shalidor and clean pathways. Odahviing sat idly, dipping his head down to allow Elayne to disboard. In turn, she swung her legs to one side of his neck and slid off. Her feet landed steadily on the pavement, and she made her way to Savos Aren.

“Savos! You’ve been keeping well, aye? Still the Arch-Mage I see.” She mused, offering a friendly smile. “How have things been here? City guard give you any trouble in recent time?”

“Funny you should inquire upon such things, Elayne. You’re more than familiar with Winterhold’s disdain for the arcane arts, I needn’t remind you.” He huffed, brushing down his robes. “I thought you’d be here to ask about your little friend, Lysara.”

The name itself made her pause. She stood in silence, her eyes narrowing at the bold, brash mage. Lysara Wickwing was a fellow prisoner of the imperials, back when Elayne was captured for crossing the border into Skyrim. She, too, was a Breton, and magically gifted. To this day, The Last Dragonborn still remembered the conversation they shared…

“Well hello there, you took your time waking up.”

A low, guttural groan escaped her lips. Her vision was still blurry, but as she blinked back the grime in her eyes, she finally got the picture. Elayne was in a carriage, with her hands bound, dressed in rags. Immediately after, an annoyed huff billowed forth from her nostrils. Her belongings must’ve been confiscated; she’d have to retrieve those eventually. She knew full well why she was there, despite her foggy mind. Her foolishness and brazen attitude towards immigrating to Skyrim landed her in hot water with a small band of Imperial scouts. Whatever punishment awaited her was well-deserved. How ignorant she was that day.

“Do you talk or not? I’d much rather not spend this wretched carriage ride in silence.”

More talking? Gods, fine. Elayne looked at the person speaking to her, grimacing from the remaining fog. On the carriage bench across from her sat a woman. Judging by her stature, she had to be a Breton; she was too short for a Nord, as well as an Imperial. Her hair was as black as night, and her eyes even darker. The woman’s face was painted ornately, sculpting her young visage in purple hues. Similarly to herself, her hands were bound.

“I can, but I might choose not to.” Elayne rolled her eyes and awkwardly adjusted in her seat. Wood couldn’t be more uncomfortable. “Who are you?”

“Thank you for regaining your manners. Lysara is the name. Lysara Wickwing.” The woman, named Lysara, responded gleefully. Strange, given the circumstances. “And you are?”

“Elayne Moorfield. Pleasure to meet your short-lived acquaintance.” An astute retort, albeit unnecessary. “Why are you here? Surely you didn’t anger the Imperials as badly as I did.”

“Oh, you’re sorely mistaken. You see, I’m a mage. Or, at least, I want to be. I was experimenting with a new spell I learned from my tutor. Fireball; very dangerous to foes, but can backfire rather easily. That’s… what happened. I tried to cast it, but it went horribly wrong.” Lysara’s gaze averted to the scenery ahead of them. It wasn’t much to look at; just a winding, downward dirt road with some trees. “I killed some people on accident, including my tutor. Made the fatal mistake of running away from my home village, Ivarstead. I didn’t think about the consequences when I reached Riften.”

“You really did that? Good gods.” Elayne genuinely sounded shocked, her eyes wide. Accidental manslaughter was enough to earn a long stint in prison, if she correctly recalled. “But I thought Riften was controlled by the Stormcloaks. They don’t answer to the Empire.”

“No, you’re right, but the jarl wished to avoid conflict in her hold. She shipped me off to General Tullius as soon as she could. I can’t blame her for protecting her people. Riften’s been downtrodden for years…” Lysara trailed off, not willing to discuss the matter further. Turning back to Elayne, she cleared her throat. “What about you? What did you do?”

“You might’ve picked up on it, but I’m not from here. High Rock was, and still is, my homeland. There was… bloodshed… where I lived. A raid.” Solemnly, she spoke, her face and body stiffening. “No one survived, except me. Even my family was slaughtered. I could’ve— should’ve died with them, yet I ran. My little knapsack held few belongings, but I didn’t care. I fled.”

“By the gods…”

“You’re telling me. I was a coward that wanted to live. I knew about Skyrim’s conflicts before I came here. Should’ve anticipated my capture from miles away. I didn’t.” Elayne blinked away some fiendish tears, swallowing back a stray cry. “Still, we’re here now. What will happen to us?”

“Don’t tell me you don’t know.”

“Know… what?”

“We’re lumped in with the same prisoners as those Stormcloaks. They’re in the cart ahead of us. Ulfric is here.” Lysara spoke quickly, seeing the open gates of a village come into view. She knew the place: Helgen. A small hamlet, not worth talking about. Thankfully for them, they were still a little ways back from it. “We’re being executed, Elayne.”

Few could deny the terror on her face. It was the beginning of the end, when she met Lysara. However, when Alduin unintentionally freed all the prisoners and decimated Helgen, they escaped together. Their paths remained intertwined for a while, until Elayne was tasked with speaking to Jarl Balgruuf of Whiterun. She was willing to do it for the sake of protecting Riverwood from the dreaded dragon, but the aspiring mage desired to go elsewhere. At the fork of the road by Honningbrew Meadery, Lysara bid her farewell and went to Winterhold. Ever since that day, they wrote letters to each other. Well… before The Last Dragonborn isolated herself.

She must’ve been standing there for a long time, as Savos had his brows furrowed in confusion. Elayne shook off the memory, quietly embarrassed about sinking into melancholy again.

“How is she?”

“She’s been well. Took to her studies quickly, bright girl. Faralda was impressed with Lysara, but our newest pupil had eyes for something else.” Savos glanced at Odahviing, watching him sit patiently for his ally to return to him. It struck the Arch-Mage as odd that the slayer of Tamriel’s greatest foe would befriend a dragon, but it didn’t concern him. “She found a book on Tamriel’s written record of historical figures. One of those individuals mentioned in that tome interested her. She wanted to find out more about him. I advised against it, as did Faralda. Alas, she was steadfast.”

“What do you mean? She’s gone?” Elayne’s face was a mixture of things. Confused, bewildered… it didn’t make much sense for her to leave the College. Lysara spoke so passionately about magic, and all her letters proved it. “Where did she go?”

“You’re familiar with Solstheim, I assume? It’s an island off the northeast coast of Skyrim.” Savos paused, his face oddly softening. “Lysara left six months ago. Initially, she wrote often, but she hasn’t replied to my letters in a month.”

“Solstheim? What in the heavens is in Solstheim that would interest her?”

“Who, you mean.” Rolling his eyes, Savos tutted at her. “Some long dead warrior. Lysara seemed keen on finding him, despite us telling her he wasn’t around anymore.”

“She never appeared to be the type to abandon her dreams.” Elayne folded her arms, slowly growing impatient and annoyed with the Arch-Mage’s passive aggressive attitude. “Care to tell me who this warrior is? Maybe I know about him.”

“Very well. How much do you know about Miraak?”

—

Translations (provided by thuum.org)

Thuri: my Queen

Tiid lost vod fah mu laat tinvaak: Time has passed since we last spoke

Pah los drem: All is peaceful

Dii fahdon: My friend

Orin fin Dovahkiin nis qahnaar fin lok: Even the Dragonborn can’t resist the skies

Pah do Keizaal los un: All of Skyrim is ours

Ol hi uth!: As you command!

Ni orin fin dilon bo het: Not even the dead would dare come here

[skyrim-drabbles-n-stuff]

Dragon Mating Rituals

(Don’t come at for this...we all know that some of us have once thought about riding some of those dragons in a whole different kind of way. So this is just a generalized headcanon thing...and yes, I think to some dialed down degree- those with a dragon’s blood and/or soul behave similarly towards their significant others, or at least mimic some of this behavior.)

• Firstly, In order for a Dragon to solidify its bond to another, there must be a buildup to the whole “together” stage before they recognize each other as mates.

• The first step in this courtship process is, of course, displaying power of thu’um. Dragons, wether they are male or female, tend to place worthiness of their potential mates based upon their skill. After all, it isn’t wise to procreate with a weak mate that can’t protect themselves nor your potential offspring.

• After this display, another one is close to follow as a means of assuring the pair’s strength. This usually comes in the form of roughhousing.

• Once the pair decide that they are content with one another, they will ascend into a secluded area away from their fellow dragons so the next- much more crucial- steps of the courting can begin.

• The pair will take turns going out to gather materials to nest, the one that stays home for the day taking on the responsibility of constructing a proper den out of whatever their mate gathers.

• When the two come to an agreement and are satisfied with the nest, they’ll settle in for a while. During this time, the dovahs will preen each other’s wings and groom each other. This takes a tremendous amount of trust and is arguably one of the most important parts of the mating rituals.

• The next, rather strange ritual, to follow would be the singing. Crazy..isn’t it? Yes, dragons sing to their mates- making sure to bristle their scales while they do so to make themselves that much more appealing to the one they chose.

• After they both do the last ritual, they truly accept each other as “grin” or..”bonded”. One of the last steps following this is the pair hunting together, flying high in Kyne’s gorgeous sky as they work together to stock up enough food to gorge themselves for weeks.

• The moment they both return to the nest and fill their bellies, the actual “mating” will begin. Usually initiated by the female, the pair will playfully nip at each other and growl harmlessly, all the while they begin to breed. This “breeding” can last for as long as a few days, only taking breaks to sleep and eat. Remember, the whole point of “mating” is to produce strong and hopefully, many, little nestlings.

• After the dragons are able to successfully reproduce, the mate that is carrying their clutch can expect to be doted on, even after they nurse their young into adulthood.

• Dragons mate for life after the completion of these trails, so it’s typical for a pair to produce a multitude of clutches.

[fanficsforheartandsoul]

The Dragonborn | M!Reader x Geralt of Rivia | Part II

Note: I split the oneshot because damn 12k does nobody want to read in one go xD

Fandoms: The Witcher (TV Series), The Elder Scrolls: Skyrim

Warnings: Non-Canon Story, Swearing, Gore, Slight OOC

Summary: Geralt and Jaskier meet a stranger in the woods while on the hunt for a special monster. They decide to team up but neither does Geralt realize that his prey is close to him nor does the stranger notice he's the one being hunted...

Word Count: 6938

If you want to be tagged in my stories send me a pm with the fandom/character name!

Please note that The Witcher is supposed to be around the Middle-Age. Homophobia existed. 

Part I

_______

A few hours later, after they had eaten the rabbit, they began to look for tracks of the monster. There were a lot of them. For example, the scorched moss where Geralt almost turned into roasted meat, the dark footprints in the dirt, and the fallen trees. 

The witcher was impressed by how good the warrior from Keizaal could search for tracks. 

“You see that, Jaskier? The way the claws dig in the ground? It means the claws of the dovah are really big. That’s pretty unusual for female dragons, so it’s obvious we’re dealing with a male. But we uh... know that because Odahviing is male.”

While Jaskier and Y/N genuinely searched for any signs he just stared at the foreigner. He somehow felt like he had found a kindred spirit in the man standing in front with his back facing him. 

A weird association, but there were only a few things that could really impress Geralt. 

Magic, Fighting Skills, and usually breasts. 

Which made him sound like a skirt chaser, but that wasn't it. It just meant what it meant. Dicks definitely didn't attract hi-

"What the hell?"

He lifted his eyes from the lower body of Y/N, and his breath hitched when those e/c eyes pierced his. Did he see...?

"The footprints are gone!"

Oh. That.

"That does make sense... Or not? It's a dragon, after all? They can fly. Or not? Can they?"

 Jaskier stepped in front of him and obstructed his view on the other. Geralt turned and touched his face. His cheeks were burning. What's gotten into him? He remembered something Yennefer had told him once as a half-joke. 

I sometimes think that if I haven't met you, you would have chosen someone who fights like you, thinks like you, who lives like you. And from what I believe that someone would have been a man. Because it needs a brute to move a brute's heart. 

While his head was filled with thousand thoughts, Y/N and the bard inspected the tracks closer.

"It can't be that he took off. Do you see how the footprints are as deep as the others? If he wanted to fly away, they would be deeper because he had needed to shift his weight."

"Is that something you learned while hunting for the other dragons with the Dragonborn?"

The man from Keizaal nodded. Some locks fell into his face, and his expression was thoughtful while he searched for a plausible explanation. Geralt could see every feature of his sharp e/c eyes. 

They were different from Yennefer's violet ones, their spark was different, but for other people, they must be as enthralling as the eyes of the sorceress to him. That's at least what he believed. They had a particular pull. He didn't feel it, but it was there. Puzzling, but powerful. 

A cough pulled him away from Y/N's eyes, and Jaskier stared at him with a grin. 

"What?" he asked, his voice almost defensive.

"Nothing," responded his friend with a knowing undertone. What the hell was going on?

"Well, I can't think of anything that happened. Witcher, what about you?" 

The mesmerizing eyes turned to him, and he blinked. What was the question?

Thankfully, I always have a good answer ready. 

"Hmm." 

He shifted and knelt to see the footprints up close. They had a certain distance to each other as if the dragon was walking slowly. Y/N was right; he couldn't have flown away, the marks were too shallow. Either he disappeared into thin air, or the monster had an amazing control when it came to his weight.

 "Strange..." was all he said.

He focused on the sounds around them, but there was nothing extraordinary. Just the whistle of the wind, a few birds singing, and the steady heartbeats of the other two men. It was a dead end. 

"Fuck."

He looked up, surprised that he and the warrior of Keizaal said the same thing at the same time. Y/N shot him a grin, and Geralt snorted. 

"Maybe we should try to set up a trap"

He turned and watched Jaskier's expression. It was a good idea, and they didn't have any other options, besides he wasn't really in the mood to search the whole forest for the dragon. The h/c haired man agreed and pulled a bow out of his satchel. The bard's eyes once again widened.

"I want a bag like this too."

"If you don't want to carry your things anymore, you can give them to me. I'll store them."

Jaskier smiled brightly, and Y/N returned it. Something flared up in Geralt's chest, but he ignored it. Damn bruises make my chest hurt. 

The bard gave the foreigner their things, and he put them in his satchel. 

"Let's think about the trap," the warrior tested the string of his bow and then focused his eyes on Geralt and Jaskier. 

"Dragons are usually very picky about their food, but I belie- know that Odahviing is fine with deer meat. We should hunt some." 

.

And they did. With the help of Geralt's tracking skills and crossbow and the Y/N's bow, they easily got two does. Although it took a while to find them since most animals steered free of the area where the dragon rampaged. 

Geralt and Jaskier only watched, while Y/N slashed the throats of the already dead animals. 

"Dovahs have a keen sense of smell; we have to cover our own scent."

He continued to drench his hands with the blood and even smeared some on his neck and armor. When he couldn't hear the other two approaching, Y/N turned around and tilted his head questioningly. 

"U-Uh, what did you say?" asked the bard and avoided his gaze. 

“What? Did I say something wrong? Can you... Is it a sacrilege to use doe bloo-"

 Geralt interrupted him. 

"We couldn't understand what you said because you spoke in a different language." 

Y/N widened his eyes, and an apologetic look crossed his face. 

"I'm sorry...”

Jaskier’s slightly odd expression concerned him and he examined the witcher. Geralt was more intrigued than scared by the fact the atmosphere in the woods seemed to have changed as soon as the other spoke in his probably native language. 

The fact that Y/N’s voice got a lot deeper while he spoke, caused a shiver to run down his spine. The foreigner apologized again and then added:

“I said the dragon could smell us. We should cover our scent with the blood."

Jaskier didn't seem to like the idea, but the witcher nodded and followed his advice. 

Soon the bard's and his hands were stained with doe blood. Geralt was unaffected by it since he already got used to it by hunting monsters for years, but the other man looked a little pale. 

The warrior watched their actions and then approached the white-haired man. His yellow eyes followed all of his movements. 

"You should also put some on your throat... It’s a place where a lot of sweat gathers." 

As soon as Y/N touched his collarbone and neck, Geralt stiffened. Actually, he froze. Something about another man touching his carotid artery was really intimate. His nose caught the smell of iron, moss, and smoke. 

Someone who lives like you. 

Yennefer's words replayed in his mind, and he couldn't stop himself from unconsciously moving his head closer to the other man. 

The warrior was only a few centimeters smaller than him, his head reached up to his eyebrows. The hands on his throat were rough and slippery, but they touched him with such gentleness, Geralt had to shiver. 

He gulped, and his adam's apple pressed against Y/N's palm. The afternoon sun danced on the other man’s scars, and eyelashes and Geralt wondered if every man had such long ones. He breathed in and closed his eyes. 

Is this the essence of a kindred spirit?

Suddenly Y/N's hands disappeared from his throat, and he could no longer feel the warrior's presence so close to him. 

“Put some on your cheeks too.”

A little disappointed, he opened his eyes and noticed that the other man had already turned and now approached Jaskier just to do the same thing to the bard that he did to him. 

Y/N's bare hands touched his friend's throat, and neck and Geralt suddenly had a very, very dark thought. 

Abruptly he turned around and covered his lower face with his hand. 

Did I... About this man...? 

He could feel how heat crept up his neck, and he questioned the emotionlessness that every witcher was supposed to have. 

What the fuck was he thinking? He has Yennefer! 

Or at least had. Their relationship was somewhat in the stars at the moment. After their rather big fight last time... 

Geralt didn't know why that mattered though.

He buried the fluttery feeling that had sprouted in his chest when the other man had touched him. 

What he didn't realize, Y/N's heartbeat was pounding faster after the physical contact they had just shared.

-

After they had covered their scent with deer blood, they also smeared some dirt on their armor and clothes, much to the dismay of Jaskier. Then they decided to set up their stakeout one hundred meters away from the carcasses. 

It was close enough to quickly attack, but also far away enough for them to be safe in case the dragon wanted to grill them. They sat on the mossy ground and leaned on the trees surrounding them.

"Now, all we have to do is wait."

Patience was something every hunter was supposed to have, and both Geralt and Y/N obviously had it. The bard, on the other hand... 

The witcher's left eyebrow twitched in annoyance. After his friend had whistled, he began to eye the two men. Jaskier's stare felt like a cockroach was crawling over his body. He had a bad premonition about the weird behavior of the brown-haired man. He glared at him, but he just grinned. 

Stop staring! 

Geralt turned his head away and noticed how the warrior from Keizaal seemed to concentrate on something around his neck. He clenched and unclenched his fist with an absent expression. 

He watched for a while and then realized that Y/N was holding a ring that he wore on a necklace. 

A sinking feeling appeared in his gut, and he suddenly felt like a mountain weighed his shoulders down. 

"You have a wife?" 

His mouth was faster than his thoughts. 

The man startled and then shared eye contact with him. 

"Something like that..." 

Geralt frowned a little. What kind of answer was that? He stared at Y/N with a hard look, but the other added nothing else, just sighed and hid the ring under his heavy armor. 

The witcher only grunted and turned to face the direction of their trap. 

Shit, why was he so annoyed? 

The idea of the warrior having a doting wife waiting for him in Keizaal made his heart clench, and his chest felt tight. 

This time he couldn't blame the bruises on his rips. 

He finally acknowledged that the h/c haired man intrigued him and caused some rather odd feelings to rise. 

But this... Why... Why the fuck was he feeling jealous? 

And it wasn't even that the man had a wife, no; he was jealous because some woman had Y/N. 

That dragon must have indeed killed some of his brain cells. 

His yellow eyes traveled back to the other man's figure. His broad shoulders were hidden under his armor, but Geralt had seen them. 

Just after he had woken up, he had seen the man in regular clothes. Although he had worn a shirt, the witcher had been able to see how muscular Y/N was. 

His body seemed to be covered with scars. Tiny cuts on his hands, big slashes on his collarbone, and even some nasty ones close to his throat. Geralt was sure there were many more, but he wasn't able to see them. They were proof of fierce fights and the experiences the man had had to go through. 

Was it weird that they attracted him? 

Like the hands in his dreams that had traveled over his, the Butcher of Blaviken wanted to trace Y/N's scars with his fingers. He wanted to feel how his body had healed him, wanted to know the story of every scratch and bruise, wanted to touch the energetic muscles bursting with strength. 

A flame of desire began to burn in his body, and he lowered his head to hide the dark expression he wore on his face. 

These thoughts needed to stop; they would only become problematic in the future. 

Geralt scratched his neck and then examined the brown-red flakes under his fingernails. 

He felt a stare on his body again, and he sighed. 

God damn Jaskier...

When he lifted his head, he was surprised to see that it wasn't the bard who looked at him but the warrior from Keizaal. Y/N's e/c eyes were unfathomable, but he showed a somber expression. He paused for a second, and the world seemed to turn slower. 

The witcher could see every blemish on the other man's skin, every mole, every freckle. Geralt breathed in slowly, and the warrior's hair swayed in the wind. 

He's so handso... The wind?

Geralt abruptly stood up. 

"The-the wind turned!" he muttered and gulped. His cheeks felt hot, and he bit his lip. Jaskier frowned.

"Doesn't this mean that our smell would be...?" 

Y/N sighed and nodded. 

"Is a lake close by?" 

The bard shook his head. 

"But, we're only a few miles away from the sea."

The witcher watched the other man closely while he questioned the other's exhausted expression. 

"The wind has turned due to the late afternoon. We should move."

Geralt and Jaskier only watched when the other stood up and grabbed his bow. 

"Why not wait until the wind turns again?" asked the bard, and he followed after the h/c haired man. 

"That won't be the case until tomorrow. The sea has saved the warmth from the sun while the land cooled down. We have to wait until the land is warmer again." 

Jaskier eyed Y/N carefully. Geralt could already guess what he was thinking. He understood what the warrior from Keizaal meant. He learned about it when he was training to become a witcher. 

"So, what are we going to do now?"

They both contemplated for a while and then Geralt spoke:

"Maybe we should indeed wait for tomorrow. I think it would be best if you tell us some more things about your dragon before we storm into this unprepared." 

He tried to suppress a triumphant smile when the other two agreed. Of course, he wouldn't admit that he actually just wanted to spend some more time with Y/N. 

He had a thought that they wouldn't meet again after this whole thing was over. 

"Then what do we do about the deer corpses?" asked Jaskier, and it was a reasonable question. If they left them, they could attract other animals... 

Both the witcher and the warrior looked at each other and then huffed. The bard just stared between them, and his face gradually darkened.

"You're not... thinking about eating them are-are you?"

-

Two hours later, they had put up a camp close to a clear pond and already roasted some rabbit meat. 

They had buried the does, and although the physical labor was annoying, Jaskier was relieved that the two brutes didn't decide to eat them. The dead animals had been lying in the sun for a long time after all. 

Y/N was peeling his armor off and thinking about the situation he was in right now. 

The fact that they were on the hunt for a dragon excited him. Not the actual part of the chase but the fact that he would meet another specimen of his current best friends. 

After he had killed Alduin, he had lost himself in a killing spree. Paarthurnax had warned him to get a hold of himself, but he wasn’t able to. His dragon soul caused him to lose all rational thoughts.

When he finally realized that he could learn so much more about Akatosh and the dovahs, he had already committed mass slaughter, and Odahviing and the wise dragon from The Throat of the World were the last ones of their species. 

Or that's at least what the three of them had thought. But they were wrong, and now he had the chance to meet another dragon! And probably also the chance to go home. If he wanted to.

But first, they had to get a hold of him. 

"Jaskier?"

He faced the bard who currently played on his lute while also watching the fire. He hummed in response and looked up.

"We should wash off the blood in the pond. Do you want to go first?"

The man seemingly wanted to say yes but then shook his head and responded with a slight grin:

"No, you can go first. I'll watch the rabbit."

Y/N furrowed his brows but then smiled and thanked him. He left the pile of his armor and Jaskier behind and wandered to the pond, which was located behind some trees and big boulders. 

The view from the camp was obscured, which meant he had some privacy. Not that he cared much, but he would rather not show his back to the two other men. Since it showed one more change he had gone through in the last year.

Although Geralt wasn't currently in the camp anyway, he left to get some more branches for the fire.

The man carefully opened his shirt and took it off. His boots, pants, and underwear soon followed suit, and he stepped to the shore where some reed grew. 

The water was cold when he stepped in, but he endured it. His muscles just tensed a little. 

Y/N walked in further until the water reached his abdomen. He wasn’t even halfway in the pond, it was fairly big. 

He sucked in some air when he lowered himself into the water until it reached his chin. He had to rub his skin a little, but then the water around him turned slightly red. 

The man watched how the deer blood twirled, and he stared at his reflection. The red blood on his cheeks conjured a cursed memory in his head, and he heaved. 

Hii los dur, Dovahkiin. Hi aal krii zu'u nu nuz zu'u ahrk pah dii Zeymah fen koraav hi mah wah hin daan. You are cursed, Dragonborn. You may kill me now, but all my brethren and I will see how you fall to your doom. 

The ominous words of the last dovah he had killed echoed in his mind. He hugged himself, and his fingers touched his shoulder blades. 

The skin was still shedding. Y/N sighed. What was going on with his body? The shedding had started a few months ago but he had no idea why. 

And since it only started after he had arrived here he couldn’t ask Odahviing or Paarthurnax.

He breathed out slowly and then dived underwater. 

The coldness cleared his head a little, and he relaxed slightly. His feet left the muddy ground, and for a moment, he floated. 

If I could just stay like this... 

His hand clenched to a fist, and he released some Magicka. The small pressure on his nose disappeared, and he automatically breathed in. 

Air filled his lungs, and the Dragonborn smiled. Peace washed over him, and he spread his arms. 

He slowly floated to the surface, and his face broke through it. Water droplets pearled from his cheeks and eyelashes, and he stared into the sky. The tree crowns whistled, and he watched how some clouds traveled across the darkening sky. The sun was already setting. 

This was the ending of the first day together with the bard and the witcher. Geralt's face came to his mind, and he bit his lip. 

The white-haired man reminded him of Farkas, but he was also completely different. His attitude for example. Farkas was openly benevolent and also voiced his concerns. The witcher seemed to be reluctant. Although Y/N was able to feel that he cared deeply for his friend. 

They shared the same keen instincts, but Geralt's came from the harsh trials witchers had to go through while his love had them because he had been a werewolf. 

I can't believe that you chose Farkas over Vilkas. Do you like strength more than brains? 

Aela's voice sounded in his head, and Y/N huffed. 

The huntress had probably been right. He was attracted to the Butcher of Blaviken. These yellow eyes... They had something animalistic and penetrating that stirred an urge deep inside of him. 

He sighed and put his hands on his face. Then he scrubbed and splashed his face with water. 

Suddenly, he caught sight of a person standing behind a tree at the other side of the pond after he had wiped droplets from his eyes and opened them again.

Y/N breath stopped, and a wail got caught in his throat. He abruptly stood up again, although it felt like he had still no ground under his feet. What...? 

Light blue eyes framed by black war paint stared at him with a resentful look.

"Fa-Far..." 

His voice failed, but he agitatedly began to move across the pond, trying to reach his lost lover and husband.

Breath erratic and tears were pricking in the corners of his eyes, but at that moment, he only felt happiness and relief. Farkas was alive!

"D-Dii Shul!" My Sunshine!

The ground suddenly declined, he lost his footing and dived involuntarily underwater. 

Nevertheless, he was still able to hear the words that had left the lips he had kissed so often. 

"So, you've abandoned me."

An ice-cold feeling washed over him, and his heart broke.

No, that's not true! I would never! You were gone! You left me! You died!

A disturbing scream erupted from his throat, and the skin around his mouth tore. The scream turned into a roar, and he clawed at his face. The e/c eyes shook, and the black pupils turned to slits. 

Shreds of flesh got caught by growing claws, and gigantic fangs emerged from the man's jaws. 

H/C hair parted, shrunk, and gave way for two enormous horns. His whole body shook, and his limbs twisted and cracked. His spine grew longer, broke through his lower back, and two bony wings arose from his back. 

The murky water of the pond turned red and swirled around the tremoring creature who rapidly grew until it was able to stand on the pond bed. Flesh turned hard and into black scales. New tissue engulfed its wings and tail and also got covered by rockhard scales.

Burning heat crawled up its throat, and furious flames burst from its maw. It broke through the pond's surface, and the splashed water evaporated immediately. 

The dragon spread its wings, and they created waterfalls when they left the water. The wingspan was as big as half of the pond, and when it pulled them closer to its body ready for takeoff, the leaves and needles of the surrounding trees shook. 

A thunderous boom announced the beast's presence, and it tensed its huge muscles. 

When it thrust off the pond bed, the water turned into waves and flooded over the shore and soaked shoes and clothes. Branches broke like grass when the dragon's wings grazed them, and trees lost all their leaves from the harsh wind which got created.

A scent caught the dragon’s attention and it whipped its head around. A triumphant roar shook the earth when it dashed towards the direction the smell came from.

The beast ignored the scared brown-haired human that stared at it from a small campsite.

-

Geralt was grabbing some more branches when he saw some Celandine, and he swiftly decided to take them with him. They were always helpful, after all. 

Putting the branches on the ground, he knelt and carefully tore the flowers and the not yet bloomed buds from their stems. 

While he stored them, his thoughts trailed off to the mysterious man who accompanied him and Jaskier.

Y/N had sparked something inside of him, and now he was questioning his heart, which confused him even more since the person he found interesting was a man. 

On the other hand, he couldn't quite tell if the feeling in his chest was something along the lines of romantic attraction or just common interest. 

Deep down in Geralt's heart, he knew that him eyeing the other man's ass was definitely not something one would call a platonic interest, but he just couldn't admit that he, who never thought about other men like that, suddenly liked one. 

He didn't feel disgusted, but the thought alarmed him.

He had seen a lot of things during his time as a witcher, and relationships between two men were never something that ended well. Various churches took care of that. 

An image in his head made his fists clench unconsciously.

And there was still Yennefer. They never openly ended their relationship so... Was he still involved with her? He couldn't tell. 

The Butcher of Blaviken sighed and then noticed a pebble in the moss. It had white streaks over its grey shape, and they reminded him of the scars in the foreigner's face. 

Was he seriously associating weird things to Y/N now?

Maybe the other cursed him. 

While he pondered some more about the other man, it took a while for him to notice that the forest had turned unnaturally silent. 

Birds stopped singing as if they held their breaths in fear, and suddenly a roar disrupted the silence. It came from far away, but Geralt was able to hear it loud and clear because of his mutated hearing.

He abruptly stood up and turned towards the direction. It came from the camp, and Geralt's heart sank. 

Please no.

He disregarded the branches he had meticulously collected and started to rush back the way he came from. Thankfully he had taken his swords with him, and he unsheathed the silver one. 

The image of the bard and the foreigner being killed carried his feet forward and pushed him to almost inhumane speed.

He wasn't even halfway back when a shadow cast on the moss stopped him in his tracks. A gigantic black dragon soared through the sky, and his wings caused the surrounding trees to shake. Geralt could feel the wind pressure, and the aura that the beast released caused a shiver to run down his spine.

The witcher grinned darkly. That bastard had an impressive bloodthirst. Geralt's hunter instincts wanted to fight that monster, but his heart worried for his best friend and his potential love interest.

He cursed himself for not taking his small bag with the various vials with potions and bombs, but he had no time to get annoyed because the dragon suddenly dived down, and he had to roll out of the way or else he would have been crushed. 

When he stood up again and turned, he came face to face with the beast's massive head, and his heart skipped a beat. 

Y/N fought against such big monsters? Repeatedly?

His respect for the other man increased significantly. 

Geralt couldn't avoid his legs to tense, but the dragon didn't attack. Instead, its e/c eyes examined him, and the witcher wondered if the monster's pupils acted like a human's because they widened considerably. 

This is a dovah... 

The beast was at least as big as a typical villager house, and Geralt was sure that the spikes on its body would cause massive damage to any attacker. The black scales seemed impenetrable, and the monster slayer seriously questioned his chances of survival. 

He had already felt it before when he had run from the dragon. It wasn't an enemy who he could overpower. If he had to fight, it would be either an overpriced victory or death. But escaping wasn't an option anymore, the dragon's tail had trapped him before the beast.

His grip around his sword tightened, and he was ready to use Quen on himself when the beast shifted and held its head up high. A growl escaped from its throat, and Geralt tensed even more. Unexpectedly, the dragon spoke:

"Dii rii lovaas fah hi. Wo los hi? Hi los ni rok."

The witcher obviously didn't understand, but the voice of the dragon shook him to the core. It was as if someone was screaming in his ear, and he had to press his hands on them. For that, he carelessly let go of his sword, but he felt like his eardrums would explode at any time. 

His chest tingled, and the echo of the dragon's word resounded through his whole body. Geralt's legs gave out, and he fell to his knees. 

The beast lowered its head until its throat almost touched the ground, and then it snorted. 

Hot air blew his hair back, and the Butcher of Blaviken came to his senses again. He needed to get his sword back! Right when he stretched out his hand to take his silver sword, the dragon crept forward until its snout was dangerously close. 

Geralt froze. If the monster decided to eat him now, he would have no time to react. This was the end. 

The realization hit him, and regret washed over him like a seastorm. There were many things in his life that he hadn't resolved yet—many things he wanted to achieve and also many things he wanted to try.

E/c eyes showed up in his mind, and his heart burned. If the dragon ate him now, would they meet in death? 

His eyes flickered to the dragon, and that's when he realized something. 

Although he had no time to elaborate the thought because the dragon moved its head forward until there was merely the distance of a hand between him and the beast. 

He breathed out slowly, and his witcher heart beat faster. He wanted to face his enemy to the last second, but after so many fights, he thought that closing his eyes and embracing death that way seemed more peaceful and freeing. So he closed them and took one last breath. 

I'm sorry, Ciri.

Seconds passed, where he only heard his heartbeat pounding in his ears. Until wind brushed his hair in his face, and he heard a sniff. A rumble shook the earth, and he slowly opened his eyes again. 

The dragon breathed in and sniffed, its eyes closed, and Geralt couldn't believe it when the beast closed the distance, and the scaly snout touched his chest. Black shiny scales only a few centimeters from his face. 

He searched the dragon's eyes, but they were closed. The rumble sounded again, and if he didn't know any better, the witcher would have guessed that the monster was humming.

When it opened its eyes again, and yellow and e/c met, Geralt had an unbelievable thought, and he whispered:

"Y-Y/N?"

The look in the dragon's eyes changed, and it pulled its head back abruptly. 

A growl erupted from the beast's throat, and it only took a matter of seconds for it to tense its muscles and take off the ground. 

Geralt was left in a daze, panic, and realization the only thing he believed to have seen in the dragon's expression. 

Leaves fluttered to the ground, and the deep claw marks in the dirt before him were the only proof for the monster's presence. 

What... What just happened?

The dragon had touched him. He slowly lifted his hand and put it on his chest. It's warm. The dovah had an unexpectedly high body temperature. 

Why did it...? Y/N... Was it really him? H-How...

He remembered something the foreigner had told them. 

His dragon soul was too much for his human body, and he slowly turned into a dovah.

"The dovahkiin..."

Geralt lifted himself off the ground and took off running to the direction the dragon left for.

-

The dragon didn't make it far. 

Geralt saw him soaring through the sky and circling above a clearing in the forest. The witcher could see a small hut standing at the clearing border, and he remembered another thing that Y/N had told him and Jaskier. 

I've been staying here in the forest for a few weeks in a hut half a mile from here.

Geralt slowly realized that his intuition was probably correct.

When he arrived at the clearing, the black dragon had already landed. 

Although it was more like a crash. Long furrows plowed the forest ground. But the Butcher of Blaviken couldn't see the dragon lying there because a strange fog obstructed his view. He was hesitant about approaching the steam, but he really wanted to know if his theory was correct. A voice interrupted his twisting thoughts:

"Bormah, Bormah... Aak dovah!"

It was deep and raspy, and he didn't understand what it said, but Geralt could recognize it instantly. It was him.

Y/N was the dragon.

-

His whole body hurt. 

"Why are you doing this to yourself?" 

Blue eyes watched him with a worried expression. He didn't reply. What was there to say? The dovah needed to die. He was the only one capable of killing them. 

Why couldn't he understand? 

"Think about it, Y/N. You're one of them, so you shouldn-"

"Don't you dare compare me to them! I AM THE DRAGONBORN! Dii Zahkrii kriin Dovah ni aak niin!" 

He knew he went too far as soon as he saw the other's expression. 

Farkas stared at him with slightly widened eyes. 

"Control yourself, Dovahkiin. Or else disaster will fall upon you and the ones you love." 

Arngeir stepped forward and put a shoulder on his lover's shoulder. He could feel how his pupils flickered. Anger welled in his stomach. 

"Don't touch him..." 

His voice was low and threatening. Farkas scoffed, but his face only showed hurt. 

"Don't worry about me, Dragonborn." 

The distance in his words was like a thorn in his heart. The idea that Farkas couldn't understand his thoughts tore his heart in two. Y/N only watched when his significant other walked out of the room, Arngeir following him. 

"Wa-Wait, Farkas, no!"

He reached out his hand to stop him, but the other man was already so far away. 

"Akatosh, Akatosh, help me!"

Tears welled up in his eyes, and a wail escaped his lips. 

Arngeir was right. Disaster fell upon him. 

The skin shedding on his back, his pupils turning to slits, the increased usage of Dovahzul, all were signs for his slow transformation. 

He couldn't believe that the stories Odahviing had told him jokingly were real. His dragon soul was changing his body and personality. 

And now it had happened. He turned into a dragon. 

How many times had he already done that? The witcher mentioned that the monster they were hunting tormented the villagers. 

What had he done?!

The pain he felt after transforming was nothing compared to the pain in his heart. Y/N became the monster he had thought he was slaying when he had eradicated all the dragons from Skyrim.

The scars he had received from all the dovah burned, and shame clung to his heart. 

Why didn't he listen to Arngeir? 

The greybeard was wise and only wanted his best after the dragonborn distanced himself from the Blades. His loved one died because he didn't listen! 

And now he... He turned into an inhumane beast. 

Suddenly he remembered the bard. Did he attack him?! A sinking feeling struck his gut. 

Please, no, no, NO!

What about Geralt? 

Oh Talos... I have to return to the camp!

He tried to open his eyes, but his eyelids were heavy. He groaned. 

What if the two others were bleeding out while he laid here? If the witcher died... Y/N was sure he could never forgive himself. 

Farkas's death was something that he could slowly overcome, although it took him years, and he still hadn't let him go but... If the witcher's death joined, he was sure his shoulders would give in under all the regret.

Just imagining how these beautiful yellow eyes lost their light, he couldn't take it.

He didn't realize it immediately, but his heart was already in the hands of Geralt. He had already lost. 

Y/N finally regained some strength, and he used it to open his eyes. His vision was blurry, but he could see that the sky had already turned dark blue. 

He knew what lurked in the forest at night. 

The thought reminded him again of the witcher. What an irony that it took the white-haired man less than a day to sweep him off his feet. It was the complete opposite with Farkas. Maybe they weren't that similar at all.

He turned on his side and soon realized that his back felt different. The cold wind gave his arms goosebumps, but his back felt perfectly warm. He lifted his arm and cricked it to reach his shoulderblade. When his fingers grazed his back, he sucked in some air. 

That definitely wasn't flesh. That smooth texture... Y/N would recognize it everywhere. He had felt it so many times after all. 

His back was full of scales.

Panic and adrenaline gave him strength, and he sat up, ignoring the pain that bolted through his torso. Only now did he realize that he was completely naked. 

That shocked him less than the fact that only a few meters away stood the Butcher of Blaviken with wide eyes, his sword in his hand ready to attack. 

"Y-You..." Geralt didn’t continue. 

Y/N opened his mouth but didn't say anything as soon as he saw how the other man flinched.

His heart pounded loud in his ears, and he felt light-headed. He breathed in, it sounded strained.

A smile crept on his lips, and he grinned exhausted.

"Thank Talos, you're alive..."

.

The witcher didn't know what to respond. 

He was frozen although he couldn't tell if it was because the person before him was a fire-spitting dragon or because the man was butt naked. Something that usually wouldn't impress him but after realizing that Y/N attracted him... He was conflicted. 

"You... you turned into a dragon," he finally said with a neutral tone. 

The man sitting in the crater nodded slowly. He looked as lost as Geralt felt. 

Did he not know?

"Are you... Are you the dovahkiin?"

Y/N nodded again, and he lowered his head. 

The witcher could see the shame on his face. After receiving this information, he didn't know what to do with it. It should probably agitate him, all the villagers that had their cattle stolen and all the lost prey on hunts, but Geralt felt nothing. The shock was perhaps too deep. 

One is a sorceress, one a dragon. It seems like I fall in love with extraordinary people. Wait...

His eyes found the e/c ones. Did he really...? Y/n watched him with a conflicted expression. 

"Do you want to kill me?"

The question surprised him; he hadn't thought about it. But he opposed it. 

"Should I?" 

His voice had a challenging undertone, but it sounded light, and his heart fluttered a little when the other man smiled weakly. 

Geralt lowered his sword. Y/N didn't feel like a threat; in fact, he looked defeated. 

The h/c haired man leaned back and exposed his torso. The witcher was right. Even his chest was full of scars, and most of them looked like claw marks.  

A strong warrior. 

"I caused you a lot of trouble. If I have to pay for it, I'll gladly do it with my life. It's not worth much anymore." 

These words caused him to frown. The man sounded like he had already given up. Where was his will to fight? 

The imposing aura Geralt had felt when he stood tall as a dragon was gone without a trace. This man was broken. He couldn't imagine what Y/N had gone through, but he wouldn't let a warrior like him die a fool's death.

"It's true. You caused me a lot of trouble..."

The Dragonborn watched him with an apologetic expression. Geralt eyed him from head to toe, his stare burning.

"But instead of paying with your life, why not pay me with something else?" 

Y/N blinked and stared blankly, then he blushed furiously. The witcher’s heart skipped a beat. 

Did Y/N also...?

It excited Geralt that he apparently knew what he was hinting at and reacted this strongly. It meant he had a chance. Then he remembered the ring. Geralt examined the naked man and realized the necklace was gone.

"Your ring..."

Y/N touched his throat. Nothing was there. Geralt expected his face to turn panicked, but only a melancholic expression showed up. 

"It's fine. It's time to move on."

The witcher didn't pry further, but he knew he didn't have to. The smile on Y/N's lips said enough.

"So, how am I supposed to repay you?" 

The man lifted an eyebrow and grinned. He gulped, he didn't expect the man to be this willing. Suddenly he felt bad about his desires. 

"Toss me a coin."

The warrior from Keizaal tilted his head and puckered his lips. Then he smiled, and his e/c eyes turned into crescents. They looked happy. But most importantly, human.

Warmth spread in his chest. 

He had a thought that his future would be a lot more interesting with the dovahkiin by his side and Jaskier.

Wait...

Both of them opened their mouth and shouted: 

“Jaskier!”

_______

Endnote: Congrats! You made it! Like I said at the beginning, this fic is based on a headcanon of mine. Where the dragonborn slowly turns into a dragon because of his dragon soul. The dovahkiin is able to live a lot longer than any other human due to his dragon nature and it’s taking a toll on him. The scales are something I had imagined from the start. This is a drawing of my dragonborn which I used as inspiration for this fic:

I wanted the story to end in a rather light tone which some might not find appropriate but I honestly got a little exhausted. I wrote this as a oneshot of 12k words, which was definitely too much xD Writing so much is new to me. But I’m proud that I made it this far :)

I wanted Yennefer to play a part here but more like the one of a former lover. She was also a tool to give Geralt a reason why he likes Y/N since he’s officially straight in canon.

I already decided to create a fic where Geralt gets taken to Skyrim but I haven’t decided if it’s going to be a sequel to this yet. We’ll see I guess.

Some sentences that were spoken in Dovahzul were purposely not translated because it was either from Geralt’s sight or it was to show that the dragonborn was slowly changing. But they meant the following:

Dii rii lovaas fah hi. Wo los hi? Hi los ni rok = My soul sings for you. Who are you? You are not him (as in Farkas).

Dii Zahkrii kriin Dovah ni aak niin = My Sword slays dragons not help them

Thank you for reading and being patient with me :D 

[ladydaedra]

Whiterun

Part: 10/?

Pairings: Ulfric x Dragonborn; Brynjolf x OC; Cicero x OC; Ondolemar x OC

Warnings: Descriptions of violence and gore; Skyrim takes on a bit of 'Game of Thrones' feeling; may contain controversial themes.

Wordcount: 2009

~~~~~

"This is it, men! " Galmar yells at the Stormcloak soldiers as Whiterun is bombarded with trebuchet attacks, "They say that our cause is false and that we are nothing more than thieves, thugs, and murderers! But no! We are farmers! We are craftsmen! We are sons and daughters of shopkeepers, maidservants and soldiers! We are the sons and daughters of Skyrim!" Ayla looks back at the large army from where she stands on a rock, observing the city. Her own army stands amongst the Stormcloaks and they too cheer at Galmar's speech.

"And we have come this far because our cause is true. Because we fight as one. And because our hearts are bursting with anger!" Galmar continues, his voice loud and strong, "What we do here today, we do for our country! For all the true Nords of Skyrim!" both armies cheer at his words and Ayla tightens her grip on her bow, an arrow knocked with the tip on fire as a way to signal Aaryah when to attack.

"Whiterun's walls are tall, but they are old and crumbling, like the Empire whose Legion lines them," Galmar informs the armies, glancing over at the city before looking back at the soldiers, "They've barricades to block us, but we'll tear through them and the Imperials behind them! Our objective is the drawbridge. If we can find a way to drop it, the city will be ours! Everyone on me. Let's show these Imperial milk drinkers what true Nords look like!"

Ayla hears the armies give a battle cry as they charge towards the city. She watches as the Imperials fire arrows on the advancing soldiers, their focus on what is on the ground but not what is in the sky. Ayla raises her bow and pulls the string back as a gust of wind blows. She aims for the broken tower behind the Imperial's barricades and fires.

The arrow whistles as it flies through the air but Ayla soon loses it and assumes it hit correctly as a dragon descends from the sky, landing on the tower and lighting a few Imperials on fire. With a smile, Ayla jumps off the rock and hurries around the walls and climbs the walls behind the barricade. She lands behind an Imperial, whose arrow is aimed at Galmar, and slits his throat. He spasms as he grasps at his open throat before falling to the floor, dead within a few seconds.

"Odahviing,"

"It's the Dragonborn!" an Imperial yells, alerting the rest of his comrades, "she's with the Stormcloaks," he adds and draws his sword, hesitating to attack her. An arrow takes him down and that is when the Imperials break out of their shock and charge at her. She sidesteps the first attack and sends one of her swords into the chest of another. She pulls the blade out just in time to block an attack as she slices the throat of another soldier with her second sword.

"Fus Ro Dah!" she Shouts when a large cluster of Imperials charge at her, sending them flying into walls or over them while some soldiers are lucky to just slide across the ground. She barely misses being hit by an arrow as she runs over towards the raised drawbridge. She quickly runs into the tower and fights her way to the top and onto the bridge where the drawbridge controls are.

She lowers the drawbridge and turns around in time to see Odahviing land and set an entire group of the opposing side, both Imperial and Whiterun city guards, on fire before flying off again, this time over the walls and into the city. Ayla hurries down the ladder and into the city, where most of their enemies have been defeated thanks to the dragons.

"Hurry! To Dragonsreach!" Galmar yells as he runs past her, several Stormcloak soldiers following him. Ayla turns to see some of her soldiers there.

"Go through the city, kill any attacker you face," she orders them as she takes a few steps in the direction of the market, "help any and all civilians injured because of the fighting and protect them with your lives," she adds before turning and running towards Dragonsreach. She hears one of the dragons set something on fire nearby but she doesn't look to see who.

Instead, she cuts down any enemy on her way to Dragonsreach, stopping only when she sees Athena and Vilkas in front of Jorrvaskr, "what's wrong?" she asks the female, who smiles.

"Nothing," she replies, "just making sure the rest of the Companions are safe. We'll be back in the fight soon," she promises and Ayla nods her head.

"Odah and Aaryah did most of the fighting inside the city for us," she explains before glancing over her shoulder at the deserted streets of Whiterun, littered with Imperial and Guard bodies. What a waste of life, she thinks before turning back to her friend, "go through the city and find and aid any civilians," she adds and runs off before Athena can reply.

Ayla runs up the steps and is soon standing in front of the door. She places her hand on the wood and sighs, remembering when she first entered the hall so long ago and how welcoming Balgruuf was. Now she is here, attacking his city. She can only imagine what will happen when she enters the hall.

"Enough, I surrender!" she hears Balgruff yell from above the stairs, "I surrender. Peace! Everyone stand down," Ayla walks up the steps and stops at the top, seeing Galmar and a few Stormcloak soldiers standing between her and Balgruuf, "that's an order! Stand down,"

Ayla looks over to see an elderly man walk past her and stand next to Galmar. She walks forward a few steps but stays in the background, "Vignar Grey-Mane," Balgruuf says with an irritated tone, "your family was noticeably absent from the walls. Now I know why. Wouldn't a dagger in the back have sufficed?"

"You think this is personal?" Vignar asks, anger in his tone as he puts his hands on his hips, "the Empire has no place in Skyrim...not anymore. And you?" Vignar pauses for effect, "you have no place in Whiterun anymore," Ayla stares at the old man's back, raising an eyebrow at the man's gloating tone.

"A convenient position to hold now. But mark my word's old man, in the days to come, Ulfric will spread his rebellion thin. And what then?" Balgruuf asks the group, his arms crossed across his chest as he glares at them.

Galmar chuckles, "you couldn't have possibly seen the attacking dragons while locked in here," he says as he steps aside, revealing Ayla to the former Jarl, "let this answer your question," Galmar adds and Ayla slowly looks at Balgruuf to see him shaking his head in disappointment.

"You too?" he asks her and Ayla looks away, unable to handle his words, "you, Thane of Whiterun, attacked this city for what? For glory? Money?"

"I did it for Skyrim," she snaps angrily, turning to face his wrath head-on. She can feel her voice start to waver but she stays strong. Balgruuf stares at her for a few seconds before scoffing at her words.

"That's what they all say,"

"I didn't do it to destroy the Empire, I am doing this to end the Thalmor, who are my true enemies," Ayla says firmly, taking a few steps towards him and keeping her head held high, "believe me I wish it wouldn't end this way but it must. The Thalmor's claim on this land will be destroyed, even if I must die to do so,"

She watches in silence as Balgruuf processes her words, his eyes burning holes in her skin. Ayla purses her lips to keep her emotions from showing, "Why should I trust a woman who betrayed my trust," he says with no emotion before looking away from her.

Ayla scoffs, shaking her head and sighing, "you will be going to my base as a prisoner of war," she informs the Jarl, who whips his head to stare at her, "my soldiers will transport you under lock and key and bound by chains. Your children will be staying at my base, taken in by a family where they will be taught manners,"

"You can't!" Balgruuf says in disbelief, "they're my children, they need their father!" Ayla almost caved but she clears her throat and meets his gaze with a cold one of her own.

"You should have thought about that before you sided with the Empire," she says before turning and leaving the building, passing a large group of her soldiers as she goes. Once the door shuts she hurried off to behind the palace, where she recollects herself.

She leans against the stone walls of the city, eyes closed and biting her lip to keep herself from breaking down in sobs. She just destroyed a family and betrayed one of the few people she trusted with her life. She feels disgusted with herself. As someone who knows what it is like to grow up without any parents, she shouldn't be the one to do that to other kids.

War is a nasty thing and she can't imagine that ruling a country will be any different. She wipes her eyes, which had shed a few tears, before returning to her soldiers.

~~

"You'll regret this, Dragonborn," Irileth snarls at Ayla as she is led past, her red eyes glaring at her. Ayla looks away from the Dunmer woman, refusing to give the woman the satisfaction of seeing her reaction.

"I brought you into my home. I made you my Thane. I trusted you," Balgruuf seethes as he stops in front of Ayla. She looks up at him with an emotionless gaze. She wasn't going to break. She wasn't. She refused to, "and you repay me by burning my town,"

Something shifts behind Ayla and she glances over her shoulder to see Odahviing there, his red eyes locked on the Jarl as a growl emits from his throat, "with the dragon I helped you trap, no less," Balgruuf adds and Ayla turns to look back at him, "the dragon I risked my city to trap," he continues and Ayla raises an eyebrow.

"Guilt tripping me won't work, Balgruuf, you know that," she reminds him as she crosses her arms, "believe me when I say that I wish things turned out differently, I really do. But you chose your side and I can't make you change your mind,"

Balgruuf stares down at her in silence for a few seconds, studying her features before scoffing, "you're right, you can't," he agrees, "but tell me where my children will be going since they're practically orphans now,"

"You're not dying, Balgruuf," Ayla explains as Odahviing huffs behind her, "Ulfric wanted to, but I convinced him to spare you and your family as a repayment for how much you helped me in the past," she pauses as she watches Balgruuf's children follow her soldiers out of Whiterun, "as I told you before, your children will be taken in by a family at my base where they will work in the farms, not as slaves, but as free children, able to run and play to their hearts content,"

Balgruuf remains silent, watching his young son and daughter leave their home, "I suppose I must thank you for not throwing them into a cell," he mutters begrudgingly as he looks back at the Dragonborn, his anger calming, "and I wish you luck in your attempt to rid Skyrim of the elves without the Empire's help," he adds before he is led away again.

"Things are going to get worse," she says softly and Odah hums in response.

"Do you think you did the right thing?"

Ayla shrugs, taking a deep breath, "we shall see in the months to come," she replies as she looks over at the red-scaled dragon, "tonight has changed the course of this war, for better or for worse,"

[royalsmugbird]

Don't mind me, just compiling a list of AUs and fanfics I've been thinking of here for my own sake, because I'm afraid I'll forget them under the stress of my current workload!

Steven Universe:

TrueQuartz!AU (Steven is the son of an actual Rose Quartz, namely Shy Rose)

CrystalTemps!AU (Featuring Lapis, Peridot, Bismuth, and Spinel as our main CGs - with Lapis and Peridot as a QP Fusion called Variscite - and a lot of role/mom-swaps abound)

StevenTale (Steven Universe x Undertale crossover; Steven Universe characters in the settings/plot of Undertale, basically)

Undertale:

SaveHim!Ending (You can't save Asriel, but maybe you can save Him. Even after all he did to you, he deserves it. But that requires your own work. Basically an exploration on concepts of AI, autonomy, the plot of all Undertale paths, and more)

GameOver!AUs (Basically hypothetical scenarios on what would happen when you lose to the major bosses of the game)

Pokemon:

NotAlone!AU (Mystery Dungeon continuity, and basically an AU where the main character of Super learns they aren't the only human-turned-Pokemon, drawing on the protagonists of the past games)

Glitchmon!AU (Rarer as they've become with each passing generation, and now basically impossible to access without outside hacking tools, we all remember glitch Pokemon, right? Well, in this world, they exist, alongside regular Pokemon!)

AshRed!AU (Universe where Ask Ketchum/Satoshi is the little brother of Red. Not much else too it, save the fact it probably falls under Pokemon Yellow/Let's Go Pikachu Versions)

Dragon Ball:

AlternateZ!AU (Basically a complete rewrite/divergence of Z from the beginning, starting with Goku reluctantly going with Raditz into space. Based on a weird dream I had, and I'm trying to expand it.)

Monster!AU (Aside from the humans, all aliens/creatures/gods/whatever in the series are based off of classical monsters!)

Bleach:

Hollow!AU (In which Ichigo and friends fail to save Rukia from her execution, and Aizen uses their grief and rage to his advantage. Alongside his original Arrancar, he now has some of the most powerful Hollows under his control.)

Elder Scrolls 5 Skyrim:

The Divine Winds of Time (A Skyrim x Rune Factory 4 crossover. Basically a little what-if where, in the attempt to save her life, the lovely Divine Dragon Ventuswill and Frey are transported to Tamriel, where they meet the Dragonborn and Paarthurnax, Odahviing, and even Akatosh's firstborn himself.)

Fullmetal Alchemist (Brotherhood/Manga Canon):

HomunculiKids!AU (The Homumculi return, but as kids, with amnesia and no powers. Placed under monitored care, they slowly regain their past memories, but their previous attrocities clash with their moralities and behaviours, leading to a ton of turmoil. Mostly fluffy domestic stuff, though.)

And I'll add more as my mind keeps brewing!

[sephiratales]

Not her war

Fandom : Skyrim

Pairing : f!dragonborn x Vilkas

Rating : T

Words count : 1563

Aduin defeated, another matter awaits Kali and she is not very fond of the idea. (and I suck at summary)

I remind you English is not my first language, so sorry for the mistakes, it’s been a while since my last English text.

“I don’t like seeing the guards so nervous.” Vilkas whispered to Kali while they were climbing the stairs leading to Dragonsreach.

She did not answer, even though she perfectly agreed with him. An awful feeling was crawling under her skin since Balgruuf’s courier had woken them for an emergency knocking loudly at their door. He had not said what it was, but he looked terrified. Vilkas and she had learnt that the doors of Dragonsreach were sealed. Having a bad impression about the situation was an euphemism.

At the huge wooden door, Imperials and Stormcloaks watched each others, ready to slight their throat the slight sign of a gesture.

“Shit.” Kali muttered, clenching her fist.

Alduin defeated, the Civil War could resume and she had a perfectly good idea why the both camps were here, why everyone was so tense. The guards of Whiterun greeted them with relief, they hoped the Dragonborn could save the situation, foolish thought. Kali was a battlemage, diplomacy was the field of her sister, not her. By the Divines, she also was a dragon in a human skin ! Things would not end well.

They passed the doors in silence, Kali felt trapped when the guards locked them. The hall was silent as a tomb, both camp occupying a side. The jarl left his chair to welcome them, he tried to look calm, but the stiffness of his shoulders betrayed him. His eyes revealed he hated this situation too. Kali and he joined the delegates, Vilkas few steps behind them.

“The Dragonborn was supposed to come alone!” the Imperial shouted, offended.

“I am here for safety reasons.” Vilkas quietly answered.

“Don’t worry, Companion,” the Stormcloak said, not wanting to let the Imperial talking more than him, “we won’t hurt her.”

“I am not here to protect her, I am here to protect you.”

Kali offered them a cruel smile and sit heavily on the chair next to Balgruuf. She did not want to be here and she intended to show it. Vilkas stood behind her, leaning on the stone wall, arms crossed, eyebrows frowning with suspicion when the Stormcloak approached the jaarl and the Dragonborn.

“My Lady, I’m…”

“I don’t care about your name,” Kali cut swiftly. “And I’m not your Lady. Just tell what you need, nothing more. Same for you, Imperial.”

Her voice was full of venom and anger, her fingers tapping the armchair with impatience. The representatives watched each other as if they were trying to find a sort of mutual support to confront her. The Imperial cleared his throat, changing his composure.

“Dragonborn, we have accepted to cease all fight until you defeated Alduin, in which you succeeded and we really thank you for this, the Imperium will be forever grateful. We have come to ask you to join our side to end this life-losing rebellion of Ulfric.”

“And the rebellion wish you would help us to free Skyrim from the Imperium.” the Stormcloak cut.

Kali put a hand under her chin, watching the both delegates in a terrible silence. She felt Balgruuf and Vilkas’ tension growing up, they were right to feel that way. If the two newcomers continued their pathetic attempts, she would be very angry.

“Why I, a Breton, would take side in this war? Because I’m the Dragonborn? No sense!”

“Because you live here.” the Stormcloak answered.

“Oh and you want to use this argument now? I won’t fall for it. You, Stormcloaks, wanted me dead, threaten me and the ones I love, tried to humiliate me because I wasn’t Nord enough to be the Dragonborn ! Fuck you and your vision ! “ Kali spat, furious.

She quickly turned to face the Imperial, not allowing him to talk.

“And you, Imperials. You knocked me out at the border, accused me of treachery and spy towards a country I’ve never visited, you wanted to behead me. I just wanted to see my sister ! Go to Oblivion with you war, both of you. I don’t care and I can go back in my home town if you if you dare to insist on me picking up a side.”

The walls shook with her anger, sparkles lightened her fingers. Vilkas moved slightly, hoping these idiots would not be fool enough to wake the dragon inside her. He knew her temper, he knew the signs, she had learned him to recognize them when the situation was dangerous. In this moment, the danger was obvious for him. It only needed a little spark to explode.

“Dragonborn, with all my respect.” the Imperial began.

Idiot, that was not a good idea to talk to her like this.

“You have to understand that a power like yours can’t be left without supervision, especially during a war. Your power is wanted, the Imperium is of course looking for it, I won’t lie. Siding with us is a guarantee we can trust…”

Idiots. Kali suddenly stood on her feet.

“Yo…”

Swiftly, Vilkas grabbed her by the waist, cutting her breathe out; the only way to avoid her forming the words. She groaned, trying to get free from him, not trying to use her draconic powers, she would be breathless again.

“Put me down, Vilkas.” she ordered with a barely human voice.

It was not the first time he met the dragon, but he was still frightened by the power he sensed. She was a danger when she let the dragon out and he needed to calm her, as she used to calm him when the wolf tried to escape.

“You don’t want that, Kali. You don’t want to prove this fool is right.”

He ignored the offended sound coming from the Imperial, focused only on her, her tense body. Her furious grey eyes staring at him.

“You don’t want those racist and stupid Nords saying that one of them would have been a better Dragonborn than you. You may be the Dragonborn, but you’re also the Harbinger. I know you Kali, you want to help people, not to hurt them.”

Finally she gave up and began to calm down. One of the delegates opened his mouth.

“I strongly suggest you not to say a word,” Balgruuf advised with a tone that left no choice.

Kali sighed loudly, she wished her sister would be here, she hated these meetings, these ego fights.

“I reiterate what I’ve said before : go to Oblivion with your war, the Thalmor will be the only winner. You’re giving them exactly what they want.”

She politely nodded towards Balgruuf, she would gave him a proper apologise later; she needed to leave, to breathe some fresh air. Without words, she left for the upper floor of Dragonsreach, wanting to avoid the soldiers in the streets. She knew Vilkas would handle the end of the meeting alone.

The guards of Whiterun let her reach the huge balcony without a flinch or a remark. Kali leant on the sturdy barrier, breathing deeply, the cold air filling her lungs and calming her dragon. Sometime, she regretted not being able to fly, seeing the world from a different point of view like she did once on Odahviing’s back. With wings, she would be able to flee when needed, going on the Time’s breach and listening to Paarthurnax to calm herself, he was not afraid to calmly kick her ass when she pushed the boundaries.

“Do you still need to be alone?”

She was a bit surprised to hear Vilkas, she did not expect to see him so soon after her departure.  Kali turned to observe him, he looked as calm as usual, the meeting did not end in fight she supposed, nor in argue. Her curiosity wanted to know what had happened, but she did not want to give these people more interest than they deserved.

“You can stay if you don’t mind a grumpy lover.” Kali sighed heavily.

“Don’t worry, I’m used to be the grumpy one.”

He came next to her, putting his arm around her shoulders and kissing her hair to relieve her from her tension. She closed her eyes, focusing on his lips on her head, on his protective embrace, on his natural warmth.

She found the fact he calmed her and allowed her to think foolish, but she could deny the effects he had on her temper. After all, he was used to tame his own beast, he had learnt how to tame hers. Fortunately, she had abandoned her werewolf form as soon as she could, two beasts inside her were too much to bare.

Vilkas also trusted her to tame his wolf, in another way. She was strong enough to contain him until he regained his self control or worse if needed.  

“Do you want something?” Vilkas asked after minutes of enjoyable silence.

“Not being the Dragonborn and chose a side in this war…”

“I’m afraid I can’t give you that, but I can offer you a walk outside the town just the two of us. Are you okay with my idea?”

She nodded while their fingers entwined. The guards on the floor were smart enough to show them a hidden door to escape without crossing the path of the delegates once more, they had enough spoiled her time for today. The war would catch her soon, she knew she would have to make a choice, but not now, not when her grievances against the camps blinded her judgement.

[helgiafterdark]

just a woman and her dragon <3

[nerevar-quote-and-star]

Lakeshore

ao3

Author's Note: 41% of voters wanted the Dragonborn and Odahviing to get physical.

Congratulations. This one shot is all about that.

Content Warnings: Interspecies make out session; partial nudity

Summary: Odahviing finds the Dragonborn relaxing by a lake. Things progress from there.

#######

She was asleep when he found her.

         The world was still around her, the warm rays of Magnus’ light dancing through the trees and on the water. The lakeshore was peaceful, tranquil, and Leara found herself pleasantly tired. The kind of tired one feels when their heart flutters like the wings of a bird nesting down for the night.

         Removing her armor, Leara lay down on the lakeshore, blades of grass tickling her bare arms. Just a little rest, she told herself. Only a short one.

         She slept most of the morning away.

         It was incredibly warm when she woke up, Blinking, she opened her eyes to find a sheltering wing resting around her. Inches away was the large crimson body of Odahviing, rising and falling as he breathed beside her. A fond smile tugged at the Dragonborn’s mouth as she wiped the sleep from her eyes. She reached out and stroked the dragon’s side, her hand trailing along the warm red scales.

         With a rumble, the wing around her lifted to reveal Odahviing’s horned head. He was looking at her, a light glittering in his dark eyes.

         Leara pushed her fallen hair behind her ear, her smile widening. “Drem yol lok, Odahviing.”

         Odahviing bowed his head, his amusement evident. “Drem yol lok, Dovthurjud.”

         Leara leaned into his side, her face pressed against his scales. “Paarthurnax is robbing off on you, I think. Soon you’ll do nothing but meditate on the Throat of the World.”

         The dragon snorted, smoke curling out of his nostrils. “Mey, hardly.’ He looked out over the lake.

         Lake Ilinalta was green in high summer. The waters rolled in gentle waves and birds sang in the trees. The lakeshore was green and full of life, energized by the warmth of the sun.

         Getting to her feet, Leara padded barefoot to stand beneath the dragon’s head.  Reaching up, she ran her knuckles along the soft hide at the base of his neck. Odahviing rumbled again, his wings fluttering and settling by his sides. “Were you hunting?” Leara asked.

Odahviiing looked down at her, his horned face level with hers. “Niid. Zu’u lost tovit fah hi.”

         A little crease lined Leara’s brow. She knew many words in the dragon tongue, but there were many more that still escaped her. Shrugging, she abandoned stroking Odahviing’s neck in favor of caressing the horns along his jaw. The dragon’s eyes closed for a moment before opening again, watching her. At that, her smile blossomed.

         Despite Paarthurnax’s assertion that dragons loved to indulge in talking whenever possible, Leara found she and Odahviing rarely needed many words. Their meaning was in their gestures, their understanding reflected in the other’s face. Ulfric did not understand it. Even he was leery of the dragon Leara spent so much of her time with. But the Dragonborn didn’t care. Odahviing understood her in a way few people did. She often speculated it was her dragon soul recognizing his in a sea of mortal heartbeats. Whatever it was, Odahviing was dear to her.

         Very dear to her.

         Her hand cradled his horned face for a moment longer before the sunset across Ilinalta caught her eyes, the rays deep and gold as they glittered across the water. Their gentle lapping at the shore sang an inviting melody. Leara lowered her hand.

         “Do you mind if I—?”

         Odahviing nudged her with his head, not too roughly to knock Leara over. Still, she grabbed one of his horned crests for balance, her body pressed against the rigid scales of his cheekbones.

         A light giggle sprang up from her stomach. Ducking, Leara pressed a kiss against the side of Odahviing’s mouth. If her lips lingered featherlight against his face for one, two, three moments too long, neither Dragonborn nor dragon acknowledged it.

         Stepping away, Leara was nearly where the water met the bank before she pulled her vest off. It fell behind her as she untied her pants and cast them aside. Away from the heat of the dragon, without her clothes, the air was cooler than she thought it would be. Gooseflesh rose across her skin, dipping below the band of her undergarments. But she was used to the cold, or at least used to coldness at this degree. With delicate steps, Leara ventured into the water.

         It was cool, too. Soon Leara was up to her shoulders in Ilinalta, her hair floating around her in dark red tendrils. Leara looked back at Odahviing.

         He was coiled on the lakeshore, his dark eyes on her. Despite the chill, Leara lifted her hand from the water and waved to him. Beads of water ran down her arm; the sunlight caught in the droplets, glittering gold against her skin.

         She swam around until the sun disappeared, giving way to the red-gold dance of the auroras across a blue velvet sky. Shivering, Leara emerged from the lake, her hair dripping and her underthings soaked. Meeting Odahviing’s gaze across the bank, Leara felt the tips of her ears grow warm. She crossed her arms over her chest, suddenly mindful of the damp fabric and the watching eyes of the dragon.

         “Suklov kiir, you are freezing,” Odahviing shook his head.

         Despite herself, Leara laughed. She knew that phrase. Silly girl. And perhaps she was.

         She stepped forward and was met by the enveloping wings of Odahviing. Teeth chattering, Leara rushed forward and pressed herself into Odahviing’s massive collarbone, her arms creeping around his neck. The heat from the dragon’s body thawed her skin at once. It was so lovely that she almost forgot her state of near-nakedness. Almost, but not quite. How in Akatosh’s name had she so brazenly stripped earlier? Maybe, maybe, she reasoned, it was because wet clothes make everything feel so much more . . . exposed.

         Intimate.

         But, did that even matter to a dragon? No. Maybe? They had their armor and mortals had theirs. And here she stood with neither scales nor iron to cover herself.

         She was pressed against him, her bare skin against his rough scales. The scratch of them against her stomach and thighs sent a strange flutter swooping through her belly. She was freezing only moments ago, but now, now Leara felt too warm. She stepped back from Odahviing, her body crying from the loss of warmth and touch.

         Turning, she met the steady dark eyes of the dragon – her dragon.

         His head was again level with hers, low enough that only the two great horns crowning his head towered above her. Her gaze locked with his, Leara’s belly swooped again. Her skin tingled from the hot breath blown from Odahviing’s nose. The blood in her veins fluttered and she wondered for a moment if she might swoon. If she fell, she knew he would catch her. Odahviing always caught her, even when she recklessly threw herself from his back in the midst of a raging storm. He was always there, protecting her.

         Leara’s heart pounded. She squeezed her eyes closed and breathed.

         With careful, delicate hands, she reached for his face. Her fingers splayed across warm hide and small scales, Leara lifted wide crystal eyes to meet the burning gaze of Odahviing. In her heart, she knew he understood her. Right now, she was certain he understood her better than anyone else.

         Her heart bobbed in her throat.

         Odahviing’s eyes fell closed, his large head pushing into the small touch of her hands. “Kunziiyol,” he said. Leara didn’t understand it.

         “Mon coeur,” she whispered, the endearment falling from her lips unchecked.

         Her dragon gazed at her. He did not speak Bretic just as she wasn’t fluent in the dragon tongue. But that was all right. They didn’t need the same language to understand one another.

         Leara touched her forehead to the ridge of Odahviing’s snout, her skin flushing red both from his heat and her own feelings. Slowly, tenderly, softly, the Dragonborn pressed her mouth to the center of Odahviing’s, her lips molding against those of her dragon. Her dragon.

         With a sigh, Leara fell to her knees and Odahviing lowered his head, unwilling to break their contact. His fangs brushed against her skin, tantalizing, as Odahviing’s forked tongue slipped from his mouth to hers. Hot and rough, it prodded her mouth. Leara parted her lips as her dragon’s tongue slid smoothly across hers, engulfing the whole of her mouth with its presence.

         Leara’s toes curled. Her blood was as hot as dragon’s fire, its flames pooling in the pit of her stomach like an inferno. She’d never felt so hot and flushed before. Not in Summerset, not with Ulfric. Only with Odahviing. Her dragon.

         She would never be cold again.

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