Skyrim One-Shots

Ralof x (Female Elven) Reader ~Old Habits~

"____, you going to the party, right?" Ralof questioned, leaning against your door frame as you glanced up from the paperwork on your desk, not at all startled at your friend's sudden appearance.

You shrug, looking back to your papers. "Doubtful," you murmur.

The soldier groaned, "Seriously? You haven't gone to any events since the war won, O' Mighty Dragonborn- that's so boring. C'mon, have some fun."

You dipped your quill in an ink well. "Fun and I do not go along in one sentence. I am not good at socializing, even."

He scoffed. "That's because you don't even try to mingle."

After writing a neat, small sentence in fluent cursive, you set your quill in the inkwell, turning back to Ralof in his blue, Stormcloak gear with an uninterested gaze.

"I stick out more so than a withering flower in a sea of blooming wheat, Ralof."

He shook his head in strong disagreement, "You think you do, but really, you're just the same as us, ____."

"Ralof," you start, quiet.  "I am not the same as you, and you are not the same as me. That is final. Off, now, get back to your post."

The man growled, "You have got-"

"That was an order."

He stormed out, muttering curses with clenched fists. His following conversation with the guard posted outside your door was one that you heard often, though not from Ralof.

Ralof, a kind young man who was stubborn to a fault.

You knew you should be getting back to your paperwork, you had piles upon piles due by next week if you wanted to get as far ahead as you were planning, but you couldn't seem to gather the will to pick the quill back up and continue writing.

You bit your lip.

Quietly, you stood from your chair, flexing powerful back muscles as cracks rang in the room before silently padding to a closed door. Your normal, strictly formal clothes were in a closet attached to the adjacent bathroom, but this...

If you opened this door, you were reliving who you once were. The person not devastated by whips, who didn't clinch their clothing to keep from flinching at loud voices, who wore wide grins and carefree eyes.

A scowl ran across your lips.

Fuck it.

The door opened with a rough pull, revealing a tiny closet brimming with dresses and tight trousers, light tunics buried somewhere in the mess. Shoes, both heels that only a whore could walk in and thigh-high boots and everything between lined the floor.

Reliving old habits, you expertly flicked through the dresses, some short, some long, others cheaper than a strumpet and a few more expensive than you'd dare admit.

With a huff, you parted the curtains of clothing, feeling around for leather and grasping it within a few seconds of frantic hand movements.

You pulled the trousers out of the closet, their waistband stopping above your belly-button and the back decorated with a sleek corset-like arrangement of strings.

Airing them out with a few hard waves of the leather, you tossed them onto the bed in the middle of the room before diving back into the closet. Taking a quick glance at the shoe options, you chose a pair of black knee-high boots that had a short heel, sliding them out of the tiny room.

Digging in deeper, you found a white tunic that was sheerer than anything you'd worn in years, and with a shake of your head, you salvaged a bit more to find a decorated lace undergarment in black. It covered your tits, you supposed, so it would work.