#wlw brain said post softe serana or perish

[lavellane]

a house in valenwood

( f!dragonborn x serana. 1000 words. fluff, hurt/comfort, semi nsfw. )

“Tell me about your garden.”

Only when they're spent, clinging naked to one another under the warmth of thick fur blankets, does Saskia try her hand at real comfort. In her arms, Serana sighs; her breath remains even, as only a vampire's could be, but Saskia doesn't fail to notice the way her lover's eyes avoid her own, nor the way she presses herself tighter into their embrace to fight off a fearful shudder.

It's a familiar, ever-present pain, Saskia knows; but knowing is of little help when she can never find the words to make the pain hurt any less. She's never been very good at this part - helping people, preventing hurt. Whatever problems she can't solve with her body, or with sweetened, hollow words she thought of on a whim, can usually be solved by running away and never looking back. So much of her life has been shaped around that method. Mostly, she has only known vulnerability when it’s snapping at her heels.

Serana's vacant eyes, staring off at some ancient, far reaching fear that Saskia could never hope to shield her from, makes her think that perhaps her old method just isn't good enough anymore.

In the darkness of their inn quarters, Serana shifts slightly, looking up at the red-headed woman before her. Her face isn't flushed the way Saskia would expect from other lovers after the type of night they've had, but then, Serana is far from any standard love.

“The – the one at Castle Volkihar?”

The catch in her voice is subtle, and skilfully hidden, but it's enough that Saskia needs to swallow down her guilt before she nods. Perhaps the garden wasn't the best topic to bring about comfort.

“I wanted to hear you talk about it,” Saskia murmurs, smoothing down the other woman’s hair before pressing a kiss to her forehead. She hides her own uncertainty well – an old habit, but one which comes in handy more often than not. “You're so beautiful when you talk about it.”

“As opposed to talking about . . . what? Mudcrabs?”

Saskia laughs. “You're beautiful when you talk about them, too. Somehow.”

“How sweet.”

“Not as sweet as you, sweetness.”

Serana scoffs, but breaks into a smile regardless, and cranes her neck up to kiss just under Saskia's jaw. How such a simple thing can raise goosebumps along her arms even now, she'll never understand. If Serana notices, she doesn't comment; instead, she takes a deep breath, exhaled out as a tired sigh.

“Well, let's see,” she starts. “It was my mothers, so: alchemical in nature, mostly. Mushrooms and herbs and strange and wondrous plants that were decidedly less wondrous once you smelled them.”

“I've met men who sound a lot like that.”

“I'll bet.” Serana snorts. “At night, the whole courtyard would be lit up by fireflies alone. We used to watch them together, during . . . better times.”

There's an unspoken heaviness in the air as she finishes, and Saskia opens her mouth, closing it a moment later when her words fail most uncharacteristically fail her. Serana, catching the worry in her expression, shoots her a sad smile.

“Oh, don't worry about me, Nightingale,” she whispers. “I just . . . miss them. Even . . . him, in the end. Or, maybe I miss something I never had to begin with. Something I should have had.”

Should have is an understatement. Saskia reaches to cradle her face, thumb brushing across the sharp angle of her cheekbone, and she can't imagine how anybody could look at a woman like Serana, and offer her anything less than the world.

“When our business in Skyrim is done,” Saskia says slowly. “You'll have everything you should have had from the beginning. I’ll see to it."

Serana smiles, her soft laughter a melody in the dark. “I have everything I need right here.” Saskia feels cool fingers migrating towards her inner thigh, and she scoffs, despite her stomach tightening in response. “And here.”

Saskia groans. “Again? You’re insatiable.”

“It’s been a while.”

“You've been using that excuse for the last four months, sweetness.” She shakes her head, but Serana's expression softens, and she smiles in return. “I mean it, love. Wherever you want. I could take you to Cyrodil, if you wanted. High Rock. The Summerset Isles. You would enjoy Valenwood, I think, or –“

“Would staying in Skyrim be such a bad thing?” Serana asks wryly.

Saskia moans in not-so-faux horror. “By the Gods. If it made you happy . . . well. If it made you happy, I'm sure, given time - and strong alcohol - I could come to accept this . . . miserable, barren, frostbitten wasteland of a country as home.”

“You really hate Skyrim so much?”

Saskia moves to tuck a stray strand of hair behind Serana's ear. “Maybe not so much.” She shrugs. “It definitely has something in it worthwhile.”

“Suck up.” Serana rolls her eyes, but humours her with a grin. “Well. Valenwood does sound nice.”

“Oh, it is.” Saskia replies, relieved. "We can find a house there. With an alchemy tower, if you'd like. And a garden, of course - even better to replace the one you had. We can fill it with flowers and herbs and wondrous plants that don't smell when you get close to them.”

“And fireflies?”

“Of course. Butterflies, too. During the day. “

“It sounds lovely.” Serana shifts in the blankets, wrapping her arms around Saskia's waist and curling into the warmth of her neck. She presses a soft kiss to her neck, her jaw, her cheek, and then finally her lips, lingering just light enough to elicit a sigh before pulling away. “I'm holding you to this, Nightingale. A house in Valenwood -”

“- with fireflies in the garden.” Saskia smiles. “It's yours, heart.”

Serana’s lips find hers again, moving soft and sweet and with a love near strong enough to taste against her teeth, and when she pulls back, Saskia meets warm eyes bright with hope, not fear.

“Not mine,” Serana smiles. “Ours.”