Sorry, Lass

His bed is wonderful. Soft blankets and fluffy pillows that are drenched in Farkas' smell. They curl into his plush bedding and swear that it's only to take a nap. Despite the arousal pounding through every inch of their body they certainly aren't going to do anything else.

It must be an accident that they've grabbed the shirt lazily tossed across his bedside table. The Dragonborn is too dazed to feel truly guilty over Farkas' pillow being placed between their thighs. The contact isn't enough but it's far better than nothing.

Their hips shift but that heat keeps building. Not enough. It's horribly embarrassing but their hips continue bucking into Farkas' pillow desperately wishing it was him between their thighs.

Farkas is fucking exhausted. With his brother at his side the pair shuffle through Jorrvaskr in search of rest. Maybe a drink if he bugs Vilkas enough to share a bottle. Their joint assignment had been a success but Farkas is fairly sure he'll need to sleep for days in order to recover.

"Yeah, and if you -"

The instant his bedroom door opens something in Farkas shifts. There's a scent - arousing, musky, something that heats his blood in an instant. Farkas hasn't even fully registered the sight of the Dragonborn writhing in his bed before he's shoving his brother. A feral possessiveness steals his sense, previous exhaustion banished because Vilkas can fucking see them.

"Get out." He snaps, maddened by the thought of anyone else seeing them like this. The Dragonborn's hips rut into his pillow, his favorite shirt clutched shamelessly to their nose. Farkas locks the door, eyes rolling back as he's surrounded with the scent he finally recognizes as theirs.

"You're in heat." He states, tongue sliding over his teeth. Once again his body's working faster than his mind, cock already hardening under his trousers.

"I'm sorry," they sob into his shirt but their hips don't pause. Farkas' jaw tightens, gums pulsing with the instinct to bite. "I'm so sorry to bother you. I forgot what day it was."

"What do you need?" He must control himself. Farkas keeps his back pressed firmly to the door, a sick sense of desire stealing through him as the Dragonborn clumsily rolls onto their front. Their knees bend, ass so high in the air and Farkas is sure his heart stops beating.

"Need you," they whimper, back arching as if they're hell bent on enticing him. Farkas stumbles closer, kicking his boots across the room and wrenching off his shirt. He watches their fingers trail through the mess of their inner thighs, skin pink and begging to be bitten.

Farkas sucks in a deep breath as he cautiously kneels on his own bed. Two fingers trail up their inner thigh and Farkas watches the Dragonborn shiver. Something animalistic within him purrs at the sight of their slick dripping down his fingers. So wet. All for him.

"Tell me what you want." Farkas forces himself to clarify. Their hips wiggling back in search of his touch is more than an answer but he must hear the words.

"I need you, Farkas." The Dragonborn pants into his pillows, one hand reaching blindly toward him. "Need you to fuck me, please -"

He can't think anymore. The Dragonborn's words melt into a moan once his fingers sink into them. It's easy, their muscles pulsing around his digits as if they're already about to orgasm. Farkas nearly faints at the thought of them fingering themself in his bed and huffing his scent from his shirt.

He retains enough presence of mind to work them open. Slowly, thoroughly. Farkas tries to not derive too much pleasure from the way they're panting his name like a prayer. Even when the Dragonborn whines that his fingers aren't enough he stays in place. Farkas refuses to harm them even if his cock's beginning to hurt. His free hand grinds against it for a sliver of relief, eyes too busy devouring the sight of his fingers fucking into the Dragonborn.

"Please, please Farkas." They can't take it anymore. His fingers feel far better than their own but the arousal is burning. "Please fuck me, I need you."

His fingers slide out and they regret asking. A horrible emptiness leaves them whining, fat tears sliding down the Dragonborn's face. They've experienced heats before but not this intense, never before has it left them so thoroughly ruined. Farkas' soft lips trail up their back as strong hand hold their hips steady, his touch a balm against the heat simmering in their veins.

That last bit of restraint snaps. Farkas' cock slides so easily into their body and it's utter bliss. Their limbs quiver, orgasm stealing their voice as sheer pleasure jolts through their body. Farkas' warm hands and soft voice, the familiar scent, his cock throbbing exactly where they need him. It's all too good.

"You came from me putting it in?" They can't even be embarrassed by the teasing in his voice. "Haven't even done anything yet." Farkas' hands keep their hips upright, ass pressed firmly to his pelvis. The Dragonborn nods, drooling into Farkas' pillow because he feels right.

"D'you need me to be gentle?"

"No." They groan, unable to verbalize how badly they want anything but gentleness. They want Farkas to fuck them into this mattress, to breed them until his cum's dripping down their thighs.

He's better than any fantasy. Farkas' cock hits every place that turns their body into a writhing mess. The Dragonborn doesn't have the capacity to think about the way their needy moans of his name or pleads for his cock could echo down Jorrvaskr's hallways. Nothing exists other than Farkas.

He's less reckless than expected. A steady, sure rhythm of his cock fucking every thought from their brain. The perfect remedy for this monstrous arousal within them. Farkas' hips slap lewdly against their ass but shame was forgotten around the time they started humping his pillows.

They hope the shape of his hands are forever imprinted on their hip. He keeps them upright, fucking them through orgasm after orgasm but they're insatiable. Their slick and his cum coat their thighs but they can't get enough. The heat should have settled by now but their arousal is seemingly endless. It must be him.

Strong fingers twist into the back of their hair. Farkas guides their face into his pillow. Yes. Gleefully they follow his wordless instruction, hips rutting back against his. Farkas' breath comes out in short little pants and despite the handful of orgasms he hasn't slowed down. His lips fall to their back, up their spine, cock fully buried in them.

Sharp teeth graze over their shoulder and that alone is enough to wring another orgasm from them. The Dragonborn is a whimpering, sweaty mess but they recognize where his kisses are leading.

God yes. Bite me, mate me, make me yours. Yours, yours, all yours forever.

He's going to claim them. Farkas is going to make them his mate. They've never spent too much time worrying about finding a partner but this is Farkas. The Dragonborn is nodding before he even speaks, agreeing without a second thought.

"We can stop here if you want." Farkas whispers the words against the nape of their neck. His tongue slides over sharp teeth once more and he sucks in another lungful of their pheromones. He feels the Dragonborn tighten around his cock and they whine.

"My dragon." Miraak murmurs the petname as he gathers his beloved into his lap. He cannot seem to find the correct words but his heart desires nothing more than to comfort them. So he pets through their hair, allowing his Dragonborn to wipe their snotty nose on his robes.

"I can't - it's like I can't breathe." Every breath rattles through their chest and he can feel the way their body shakes. "Like I'm losing all these bits of myself and there's nothing I can do."

Each word breaks his heart but Miraak cannot fathom the pain his love is experiencing. He swipes at their tears, kisses the puffy skin under their eyes and encourages twitching fingers to twine with his. Miraak examines how neatly their hands slot together and though his back aches he does not move. Their head lolls against his chest and Miraak feels the Dragonborn's breathing calm into a steady rhythm. Copying his, he supposes.

"Allow me to be strong in your stead." He speaks against their knuckles, gentle kisses pressed to chilly skin. "I will hold all the pieces of you together."

The Dragonborn is quiet for a long while. Miraak tries not to worry about where their mind has gone. He's comforted by the way they mimic each breath he takes. Their eyes gaze emptily toward the doorway but he's certain they don't observe much, too lost in thought. Their lips quiver around words they can't seem to speak. Miraak can do nothing more than to clutch his Dragonborn to his chest and do as he's promised, to hold them together.

He is their shield from this world. He will absorb any ounce of this heartbreak that he is able to. He will withstand their anger and grief, will let his Dragonborn hit or scream at him if that's what they need. Once he'd dreamed of godhood but Miraak finds that he is quite content allowing the Last Dragonborn to use him as a punching bag.

"I had a life." Their voice is horribly small. Miraak can hear the tears, reaching blindly for their warm cheek. "I miss everyone so much."

"I know the feeling, beloved." He mumbles, a stray kiss pressed to their temple. There's a little sob but the Dragonborn's watery eyes slowly turn to meet his. He strokes at their cheek and just the sight of their heartbroken expression revives that old grief that claimed a spot in his chest ages ago.

"Does it ever get better?"

He desires nothing more than to lie. Miraak gazes down at the love of his life and wishes he could tell them that it goes away. That this will heal like a scraped knee. They're grasping the front of his robes like a lifeline and Miraak is terrified of saying the wrong thing and shattering them entirely.

"Sometimes." He speaks truthfully, kissing tears from their lashes. "And other times it hurts again." They're weeping once more, the body that had pinned him atop the peaks of Apocrypha quivering in his hold.

"I want to feel better." They plead as if he can bestow peace. Guilt eats at Miraak - he should be able to take this pain from them, to steal it all away and place it upon his own soul.

"I know, my love." His thumb strokes lazily across their cheek in a way he knows brings comfort. "I will shoulder this with you." He swears, body bent protectively over theirs.

"You don't have to." They sniffle and Miraak recognizes that the Dragonborn is putting on the same mask they've worn for years. Acting as if nothing is wrong. He can understand the pressure they've spent years under but within the confines of their home, far from the pressure of Jarls and advisors, he cannot stand this act.

Brynjolf had anticipated it. That when her cycle hit the phase she'd warned him about she'd be easier to arouse, far easier to fluster. He'd made excuses at the Guild that they'd be taking a few days away from the Cistern for unspecified 'personal business'. He'd planned jobs around their absence. No point in mentioning that their little retreat was only to Honeyside - Brynjolf didn't want anyone intruding.

He hadn't expected his Guild Master sobbing into the pillow because she needs more. She's slick with cum and sweat and Brynjolf's lower body is nearing exhaustion but she still isn't sated. He can't stand the sight of tears sliding down her cheeks, moaning his name and begging him for more.

"Stop pulling out." She whines, grabbing blindly for his hand. Brynjolf tries to laugh but her cunt tightens around him, like every bit of her body's trying to convince him.

"I have to, lass." He gulps, too tempted by her back arching. She's throbbing around him, muscles loose from an endless string of orgasms but it still isn't enough.

"Fuck me 'til I'm full." God, she has a way with words. Brynjolf fights to ignore how good that sounds. "Bryn, please. Need you, need your cum."

He hadn't expected days spent in bed. Falling asleep with his Guild Master nestled into his chest, bodies limp from hours spent fucking. Waking to her body grinding against his and the shape of her teeth imprinted across half of his skin. They've been intimate dozens of times but this is different, like there's a fire under her skin only he can extinguish.

Brynjolf doesn't bother thinking of anything other than pleasing her. He presses her knees to her chest, encouraged by the soft smile when her ankles cross behind his head. He's trying to remain present but she's determined to fuck him senseless.

"Yes," she gasps and her obvious arousal strokes his ego. "Bryn, keep going, just like that."

"Hurry up, lass." He urges, thumb rubbing over her clit. "Y'know I won't last long with you like this."

"Please, please, please." She pants again, hips twitching up toward his and Brynjolf knows exactly what she wants. He grips the headboard and forges past the ache in his lower back, fucking her with whatever energy he can scrape up.

"No, baby." He murmurs, kissing the overheated skin of her ankle. "I'll do a lot for ya but I can't do that."

Brynjolf's poor Guild Master sobs through her orgasm, exhausted body twitching but thankfully sated for now. He pulls back, too aware of her disappointed whine as he finishes on the ruined bedsheets.

"You'll thank me in a few days, lovey."

The Guild Master swears she's going mad. It's like she's sick, constantly feverish and needy. Never before has she begged for anything but right now she'd get on her knees and crawl if Brynjolf asked.

She's thankful he's such a good man. He's exhausted and somewhere in her addled brain she feels guilty but he never complains. He hauls her closer, carrying her to the bath when her legs are too sore to work.

"Bryn," she says it like a prayer, like it's the only word she needs. She wants this moment to remain sweet but it's already back, that insistent arousal pooling deep in her gut. Brynjolf looks too pretty seated in a steaming tub to simply ignore.

"Yes, lass?" Gods, even his voice is enough to heat her blood. She clambers easily into his lap, not bothering with decorum. Warm water swirls around their bodies and he accepts the eager kiss, large hand curling so sweetly around the back of her head.

She loves Brynjolf in every way possible. He's responsible, smart, funny, he's everything she's ever desired and more. He's the love of her life. Sometimes she wonders if Brynjolf is her soulmate, if the gods made him purely for her to adore. But right now she wants him to be worse.

She wishes the tender hand supporting her head would wrench her closer. Twist deep into her hair and bite. To fuck her hard and mean, like he hates her. Like she's nothing. Her cunt's throbbing at the mere thought but she can't voice it, can't admit that. Not when Brynjolf is pressing such sweet kisses everywhere within reach.

"Already, lovey?" He teases, allowing her hands to run over his chest. Her cheeks are heating even if there's no bite behind those words.

"I can handle it -"

"No." Fuck, that stern refusal is too hot. Brynjolf's hand urges her hips onto his and she nearly faints from the stiff cock brushing against her cunt. Brynjolf thrusts once and it's enough to unravel her.

"You will not handle this yourself." He speaks directly against her ear. Brynjolf's urging her hips to roll against his and somehow the friction of his cock dragging along her cunt without actually entering it feels nearly as good as being fucked.

Miraak Regency AU

"My lady." 

She whirled, gulping at the sight of Miraak. A cool breeze swept through the parlor as she took an unthinking step closer to him. His hands remained clasped so properly at his back and those dark eyes devoured each move she made. 

"My lord." She breathed, terrified to speak his name. Miraak made no move closer to her, simply staring. "Is there something you need of me?"

"My need for you is endless." His breathless admission sent her foolish heart galloping. Miraak's voice broke and finally he relented, taking a step toward her. "Could I convince you to waste a moment of your time on me?"

"It is no waste." Her voice held little sternness, fingers itching to drag him closer. She cringed at a laugh echoing from the main hall and Miraak stopped short. Terrified that another chance with him would be ruined she fumbled for a solution.

"This is no place for a private conversation."

"Oh, I agree." Despite the casual nature of his words there was a heat to them, an undercurrent she prayed wasn't imagined. Miraak's eyes bored into hers when she summoned enough courage to speak again. 

"Perhaps your study would be more appropriate?"

"Lead the way." 

She had no idea what would happen, but the excitement buzzing just under her skin kept her from collapsing. Miraak walked a few paces behind - he must worry over them being seeing alone, far from the watchful eyes of her parents. She couldn't quite hear his footfalls on the plush carpeting but knew he was there. The unmistakeable heat of his gaze alerted her to his presence.

Luckily she remembered the correct door and entered the very room that had haunted many dreams since her last visit. Memories rushed back when she paused in the doorway - Miraak's desk as put together as always, the leather chair he'd sat in to remove his mask, the coat rack she'd stolen a cloak from. A warm hand pressed to the small of her back and she melted into him.

"My lord." She practically moaned the title when Miraak's touch guided her deeper, door shutting behind them both. Finally she could breathe, indulging in the scent of his cologne she'd been craving so deeply.

"My lady." He sounded cross but his body pressed to hers, gloved fingers dragging the strap of her dress down. "I am not a lord to you."

"What are you?" Spurred on by a dry chuckle she grasped for his arm, making damn sure he stayed close. 

"Whatever you'd like me to be." 

It felt terribly natural to be touched by him once more. Miraak's hands were everywhere, mapping over her body without removing the gown. He'd raised the mask just enough for his lips to trail over her shoulder, delicate kisses left in his wake but the hunger remained. Where had his hunger gone? What had happened to the man desperate for her? Once Miraak had needed her, had left marks lasting for days after his last touch. 

"If this is not to your liking tell me to stop." He murmured into her throat, a gentle kiss placed under her ear. "I will do as you please."

"You must stop restraining yourself." She panted, finally turning to face him. Miraak's mouth was visible, mask tugged up to hide his eyes from view. Those perfect lips were parted just enough to see sharp teeth and dark stubble. With quivering hands she unstrapped the back of that damned mask, readying herself for a wrath that never came.

Modern AU Mercer

There he is again, that man. He wrenches at the tie around his neck as if it's offended him. His brows are always so tight. You wonder what he does for work that leaves him so tense.

Once or twice you've thought about asking him but you've never officially spoken. He's held the elevator a few times but you don't even know his name. All you know is that he grunts instead of speaking and seems to ingest nothing but cigarettes and cheap coffee.

There's something intriguing about his expression - the dark crescents under his eyes that never fade and the grim set of his jaw. Grey streaks through his hair and the stubble along his jaw. His hands bear scars that certainly didn't come from whatever office job he's got now.

At first, there are long stretches without seeing him - though, never quite long enough to forget. You wonder if he's avoiding you or if it's just circumstance. Without bothering to ask his name you've lost him, this attractive man who sometimes takes the same route to work. There's always movement in those higher suites, he probably got reassigned some other boring position.

But he pops up again. Only when you've begun to forget about him a scarred hand will hold open an elevator or he'll breeze past you in the hallway. The same obnoxious expression is always plastered on his face - something between a grimace and a sneer. You're almost impressed with how blatantly he wears his distaste for whatever job he's working.

In the shuffle of boring, corporate work you don't realize when you stop thinking about him. You no longer spend time wondering where his scars came from or what the tattoos hidden under his sleeves are. No longer are you searching crowds for him, itching for a chance to spill all the little questions he's left in his wake. You don't ponder why he always looked so tired or where in the monstrous building he works. You have a life and job of your own, it's easy to forget about him.

Weeks melt into months and before you realize it, you've spent a year of your life toiling away. Emails, memos, touching base, circling back, all the meaningless bullshit that earns you a paycheck has taken over. The Sun set hours ago by the time you exit the building, ripping your hair free and wishing you could just get a fucking break.

You just need to relax. Stomping down toward the parking lot you're stopped dead by a figure slumped against a thickly stickered telephone pole. His sleeves are rolled up and his eyes flutter closed as the cigarette hits his lips.

"Got a fuckin' problem?"

Of course that's what he sounds like. It's annoying how nice his voice is. Tired eyes slide over to you and you think about apologizing - you were staring, after all. But you settle into similar posture, arms crossed and glaring back at him.

Ex husband Simon Riley

“There we go, princess.” Simon’s voice cooed and fuck, your back arched as if your body ached for more of him. “Right where I’m s’posed to be.” 

Despite the soft tone of his voice, his pace was relentless. Two scarred fingers pumped deep into your cunt and each breath left his muscular chest brushing against yours. You could hardly think with Simon this close - kisses trailed from temple to jaw and arousal sparking under your skin each time he brushed that delicious spot with embarrassing ease. 

“Si.” You gasped the name, nails digging into his back when he kept you teetering just on the edge of orgasm. Your thighs shook and all rational thought was banished by the bone deep need for this man. Your man.

“Yes, love?” He murmured, one biting kiss on your throat. Gods, he was so familiar. He knew everywhere to touch until you're completely undone. Almost like you'd spent years learning every little detail of one another. Simon’s breath ghosted down your throat and your hips bucked into his hand, a knowing chuckle huffed over your skin. 

Vilkas is snappier than usual. He's tried to clamp down on it but he can't quit snarking at people for harmless remarks. They're too loud, too close, all of their smells too strong. Jorrvaskr is his home but like clockwork, every few months it becomes suffocating.

He's experienced this dozens of times. He knows what to do. But even after hours locked in his chambers that stubborn flame of arousal refuses to die. Vilkas' cock is sore but it still throbs in his hand, insistent and needy as if he hasn't wasted an entire afternoon jerking off.

It's because they're here. With their soft skin and alluring scent. They've disrupted his internal rhythm. Before the Dragonborn's arrival Vilkas could anticipate every change in his hormones, able to suppress the ruts with meticulous planning. Now he's reduced to nothing more than the young man he'd once been, ruled by his body's cycle. They've ruined him.

How long has he been clenching his teeth? Vilkas relents, pain zinging up his jaw with the movement. He scrubs at his face but the pain does little to distract from the instinctual twitch of his hips. Like they're searching for contact. Thinking of the Dragonborn had been a mistake.

Vilkas has never felt it before - not with such ferocity. The urge to fuck, to bite, to claim. Their friendship is barely more than coworkers but Vilkas can't shake the urge to sink his teeth in. To bend the Dragonborn over his bed, to feel them squirm while taking his cock, and bite until his scent is forever twined with theirs.

He's insatiable. Vilkas brings himself to orgasm once more but it's fucking useless. He's still hopelessly horny. Sweaty sheets stick to his back as he forces himself to stand. On wobbly legs Vilkas laces his trousers, grumbling to himself about needing to bathe. He should get out of town for a while, head down to where the river deepens. Cold water and silence may help regain composure.

Something in him tightens before the door fully opens. Vilkas takes a cautious step back but is too slow to hold his breath. The Dragonborn stares up at him with flushed cheeks, their delicious scent already invading his mind.

"What're you -" he mumbles, bracing a hand on the doorframe. Vilkas nearly buckles as the Dragonborn steps into his bedchambers. Waves of arousal are battering at his already weakened control. They're concerned, hands so wonderfully warm where they cup the clammy skin of his face.

"Sorry I, I wanted to check on you." Something as simple as their voice already has him melting. Vilkas can't contain the groan in his chest, forcing his eyes to the ground. He's sick, a depraved monster that they should flee from.

"I'm fine." He lies, salivating at the sensation of the Dragonborn's fingers curling around his jaw. They're staring up at him with an intensity that only fuels the need burning through his self control. Vilkas grits his teeth once more and struggles to form a plan. He must not harm them.

"You, you're so -" they stutter, eyes fluttering closed. Vilkas wrenches back but the Dragonborn follows him, taunting him with their proximity.

"You should get outta here." Vilkas is nearly moaning the words because the Dragonborn's nose is on his throat. There's a brazen inhale against his skin and that urge shreds all common sense - bite them.

"I want to help you." The Dragonborn whispers against his skin. Vilkas feels their body slide closer. He's at war with himself - he should tell them to run but they're kicking the door closed. He should handle this himself but the Dragonborn is here, looking at him with such blatant lust.

Vilkas has always been weak. The years of training and practice mean nothing when the Dragonborn's teeth clamp on his bottom lip. Instinct is the only thing that remains and Vilkas can repress his want no longer.

They taste divine. Somehow better than Vilkas had imagined. He finally feels a sense of relief only when they're mewling under him, gripping the bedsheets while Vilkas fucks them like his life depends on it. Sweat pours down his back and his hips are terribly sore but he can't think of that now, his brain consumed with the pulsating heat of the Dragonborn around his cock.

Can he even orgasm again? Vilkas isn't certain. He came too many times fucking his own hand but that doesn't stop the selfish way his hips thrust into the Dragonborn. It's the first bit of relief he's felt in days and somewhere deep down Vilkas is terrified of how easy it would be to get addicted. He's had partners during ruts before but this is something new, heightened to perfection purely because it's them.

It's difficult to keep his teeth clenched. The curve of their shoulder, delicate nape of their neck, their scent enveloping his chambers, it's all too tempting. He catches their hand running through their hair, clearing it away from the very place Vilkas is desperately trying to ignore.

"Knock it off." His attempt to sound stern fails as another weak, barely there orgasm steals his breath.

"Knock what off?" Their false innocence does not fool him. Vilkas hunches over the Dragonborn, cock throbbing where it's buried so deep within them.

"I know what you're hinting at." He seethes, indulging in a whiff of their pheromones. It ignites something dangerous and possessive in him. "I won't do it."

Farkas can't seem to figure it out, this itch that refuses to be scratched. He ate breakfast and lunch, practiced with his blade until his muscles nearly gave out, took a nap, and ran a lap around Whiterun. What more does his body want from him? He's given it food, water, and exercise - the only things it's ever craved but that itching sensation remains. Like there's something tapping at the back of his brain just out of reach. It's maddening.

He's left pacing through Jorrvaskr's lower halls, watching the rhythm of his feet as if the answer will suddenly present itself. He's filled all of his body's needs but his back is too tense, his senses heightened as if anticipating an attack. Has it been too long since he saw battle? It's been a little over a week since his last mission, the bloodlust has never gripped again so soon.

Something enticing tickles at his senses. Thoughtlessly Farkas follows his nose, excited by the prospect of finally finding what his body is so sure it needs. He rounds a corner and stills, suddenly too aware of what it all means.

The Dragonborn stares up at him, pausing where they've gathered their hair back. Their face looks a bit flushed and Farkas is vaguely aware of his heart racing. Arousal leaps through his body, stealing all rational sense.

Oh, he thinks. It's that.

"Hey big guy." They greet him with a smile that steals his heart. Farkas feels a bit guilty for the sudden urge to bend his friend over the nearest surface and fuck them senseless. He's never been too good at keeping track of these things but they've always been relatively easy for him to handle.

It's never felt like this. Farkas struggles to remain calm as his body seems to heat from sharing a room with them. The need climbs through him with every rapid beat of his heart until he's nearly salivating at the sight of the Dragonborn unfastening their armor.

It's like he can't breathe. Normal air isn't enough. Farkas takes one accidental step closer to them, nearly tripping over his own feet. The Dragonborn's little laugh sends his mind spiraling into a stream of fantasies of how his name would sound on their tongue.

"You alright?" They ask when his face is planted in their shoulder. Farkas nods, too busy filling his lungs with their scent to respond properly. His Dragonborn sounds quite nice. Farkas smiles to himself, glad to feel a playful hand ruffle his hair.

"Lemme help you." His offer is entirely selfish. Farkas is salivating at the warm skin under his lips. They're nodding, guiding his hands to the buckles of their armor.

Farkas can control himself. He reminds himself of this as the Dragonborn's armor falls to the floor, allowing him to fully indulge in their smell. Their scent, their sweat, all of it so perfectly scratches the itch that's eluded him for days. His hips rut against their backside, cock twitching and leaking from the slightest contact.

It all moves so fast, so easy. The fluid movement of the Dragonborn's hands in his hair, their lips on his, their tongue in his mouth. He falls to the floor, dragging the Dragonborn with him. Farkas can't bother moving to the bed. He can't think about anything other than being inside them.

"Farkas," they pant into his mouth and he nearly collapses atop them. The Dragonborn's legs are a vice around his waist, hips raised just enough. It's almost too easy to fuck them, to drown himself in their scent.

"Yeah?" He rasps, barely recognizing that they want his attention. His vision is blurry but Farkas focuses, trying to listen. His thrusts slow, cock grinding needily into the Dragonborn.

"D'you want this?" There's something like fear in their eyes that makes his heart drop. "Or was I just the closest person when your - y'know, hormones hit."

"I want you." Farkas' face is buried in their throat, teeth scraping against skin he longs to bite. He knows that it's wrong, that he shouldn't be confessing his love while restraining himself from claiming them, but he can't help it. Something in his soul demands them.

"Only you." Their fingers tighten in his hair as his thrusts pick up again, that animalistic urge overtaking him. Farkas fucks into his Dragonborn until they're a moaning mess, fairly certain he's already orgasmed but he can't tell. The pounding arousal doesn't relent.

He can't stop. Even when he's coated in sweat and certainly dehydrated Farkas can't stop fucking them. He licks up their spine, cock twitching as he slides back into his Dragonborn. They're still so eager in his hold, so vocal that Farkas can't bear to tear himself away.

His Dragonborn. All his. Farkas doesn't realize he's muttering it into their shoulder, his body folded over theirs as if he can consume them. Is he dreaming? It feels too heavenly to be real, to have the Dragonborn moaning his name and pleading for his touch.