Also 63 for laat and Miraak please
kiss 63: "trying to concentrate on a task but your lover kisses your neck, making your head spin." nsfw.
Miraak squatted comfortably in the dirt. His sharpened claw hovered over a chunk of driftwood he was practicing the carving on as he puzzled over the draconic characters, thinking of what more to add. The dedication was short and to the point, but he thought he could maybe add a bit more flair to the poetic memorialisation of the dragon’s name. He had known this dragon, once, hadn’t thought as terribly of it as he had some of the others, which was about a ringing commendation as Miraak ever made about any of his peers, except them, Laat, the Last Dragonborn. Every day their sheer humanity and the rawness of their dragon-soul confused and captivated him.
After the sweaty fight to down the dragon, he’d pulled off his mask, which was apparently his mistake.
Miraak twitched when blunt fingers gently moved the dripping, ink-sodden cascade of his limp green-black hair away from his shoulder and neck, flashes of fire-warmth against his skin. He held still, suddenly feeling cold, in need of their warmth. A cloth – the rough edge of Laataazin’s shirt, he thought – swiped over the skin to remove the excess ink seeping from his pores, and then Laataazin leant over his neck, lips mumbling at his skin. They hummed, a deep, low sound that tickled the bones of his ears and made something in his stomach twist. It was the sound they made when he pleased them, when they’d found something they liked, when they wanted to keep it. A wet tongue traced up the shell of his ear.
Miraak shivered, hard. How could they do this to him, every time? Make him into some bony, hungry, cold creature, aching for warmth, touch, pleasure? He swore there were nerves in his ancient, papery body that only woke up under the caress of their skin. Simultaneously, he wanted to arch his neck to make it easier for them to kiss him and sprint directly off the precipice of the cliff. Well-practiced at the horrible conflicting impulses that warred in him at his fellow Dragonborn’s touch by now, Miraak willed himself still as stone instead.
Laataazin’s rough lips curled into a smile against his sensitive flesh.
“You aren’t helping me focus,” he complained, wincing at how his voice husked, “And you’re the one who insisted on a Word Wall.”
A warm, brown palm crept over his hip. Miraak stilled, then aggravated, pushed it away. Laataazin let go with no fight and a chuckle that made the pebbles beneath his boots quake. One lonely pebble bounced its way down the rocky slope with a clatter that would wake the dead, if there were any but himself and the stripped bones of the dragon, hollow eyesockets turned to the sky. He’d already checked that he’d have no audience, of course, when he’d taken off his mask, just for a moment, just for a breath, but now he was reminded of it afresh with a strange, hot excitement.
Their broad chest remained pressed up against his back, a warm, hefty presence that chased away all thoughts in his mind with memories of how good they made him feel, when they had him down in the bedroll under the stars. He smelled them, the bear-tallow they’d greased their cracking facial scars with to protect them from the cold, the herbal scent they’d used in their greying hair, the persistent chill reek of armour oil and blood-rust. Their breath puffing against his skin was hot, warmed by the pounding of their living, human heart, fed by sun, wheat and wine.
“Don’t let me distract you,” they whispered in his ear, barely words, barely breath. The sky rumbled ominously in response, and distantly, lightning forked, split a barren tree directly in half with a thunderclap that made Miraak’s teeth itch.
“Don’t try and distract me, then,” Miraak retorted, then had to clamp his lips shut when they mouthed a tiny, sweet kiss at the base of his neck.
They shifted behind him. He dared think the worst was over, even returned to squinting at the carving, but what happened next completely derailed him. He heard the rasp of cloth on skin, the clinking of their belt buckle, felt their arm bend and flex against his back as they resettled. Then a slight, hitched breath as their hand slipped into their breeches. A short inhale, sighing skin on skin, a needy nip at his neck.
“Laat,” Miraak whined, and their free hand planted on the gravel by his foot, anchoring their weight. The other moved against his back, slow, sure strokes echoed in the tempo of the breaths huffed against his neck, the stifled sounds hastily muffled into his neck before they levelled the hillside.
Their skin on his made his body buzz, blood sparking alight in his veins. He stared without seeing at the carving ahead of him, blood pounding in his eyes and making his vision pulse red. Their breath swirled down the neckline of his robe, superheated his soul, made his heart race a rabbit’s thundering tattoo in his neck like it wanted to leap right out of his body into their waiting teeth.
“You’re shameless,” Miraak muttered to them, and their grinning lips dotted kisses up his neck, good as an agreement. Each one made his chest stutter and his knees tremble. His body was slowly turning to water, the greedy push of Laat up against him tipping him forward until he stumbled onto his knees.
Laat’s reaction was instant; their body rubbed against his backside, grinding into him, the hand not pleasuring themselves immediately gripping his jaw, muffling his gasping shout. Their hand was wet and slightly muddy from the ground, and there was gravel digging into his bony knees, but Miraak’s only option was to wheeze needily, his ribs digging against his thighs as Laat bodily bent him half.
Futilely, he tried to squirm free of the implacable hold, but their grip on him only tightened, their powerful arms as crushing as iron bands and hot as brands. He could still Shout; he could have blasted the fingers off their hand with a Fire Breath Shout, if he wanted, but he did not want that – he wanted them. Miraak whimpered, unable to easily free himself and suddenly, achingly aroused.
They shuddered hungrily against him, twisting their hips. They must have found an excellent angle, because he heard them stop their breath entirely, hips juddering in a silent circle for three long seconds before they slowly, carefully exhaled. Still, the ground rumbled warningly, and clouds gathered over the horizon. A pattering of rain began in odd flickers and darts, chill on Miraak’s knuckles where they twisted pleadingly into the dirt.
Miraak’s wet, long hair was plastered over his face, ink stinging at his blurring eyes. He gasped against Laat’s broad, callused palm, tasting the earthy mud and sour sweat on their skin. Their blunt nails spread over his cheek, roughly digging into his jaw.
Wolfishly, they attacked his neck with kisses and bites that made him arch and cry out, pain erring on the edge of pleasure. Their dull teeth scraped at his flesh like they toyed with eating him, shredding his skin under their teeth to get at the blood and meat beneath. Barely had they bit one bruise into him than they were chewing another welt, blood vessels bursting black-purple under the skin. When he hissed an invective, their hard, lustful bites soothed into long, luxurious laps of their wriggling hot tongue.
They growled when they came; a sound too low for human ears but which buzzed through his chest, through the shivering trees around them, through his body into his dragonsoul. The ground roiled beneath his knees, slithering away from his grasping hands like a push from the divines. His sil awoke with a throbbed roar, spreading through the skin, and Laataazin’s panting against his neck whipped it into a snarling flame.
Miraak’s nails dug through the dirt into his palms. The rain hissed down in thick sheets. Lightning forked – thunder followed half a beat later in a spat of raw, wind-shriek groans.
Their clothes shifted as they redressed themselves and wiped their hand on their breeches, breath still coming raspily against his neck. Their sweaty forehead pressed comfortingly heavy against him, the snarls of their hair soaking up the spare ink weeping from his. The rain was soaking them both to the bone, but they were perfectly warm, like an ember against his back. There, they slumped, the tension draining out of their thick, beloved body, powerful and grounding as a tree-stump.
“Are you quite finished distracting me?” Miraak managed, proud that his voice was only shaking a little. Laataazin nuzzled into his neck with a truly flagrant lack of regret.
Maybe, they signed coquettishly against his hip, how long til you’re done?