Skyrim is more cold-crypts-and-living-dead than anything else. Like, seriously. 99% of the frozen wasteland is underground burials and walking skeletons. It's crazy.
There's no doubt that most of the enemies ye poor 'ol Dragonborn encounters are said skeletons in said burials. But why? The loot. The reward for retrieving hidden treasures. The glory (if you can call it that).
But what else? Certainly not sexy time with a draugr. Nope. Definitely not.
But, sometimes, it is the best treasures we find when not searching for them. Eh? Ehh? Yay? Nay? Okay.
.:::.
Contrary to popular belief, the tombs of Skyrim were pretty boring, versus terrifying because they were filled with draugr.
It felt like hours that the Dragonborn, a lean Dark Elf of masculine proportions, had been wandering the endless tunnels of one such tomb. And he hadn't even seen a draugr. Just decayed skeletons.
It was dark, dank, and the only sound was when he had to occasionally clear his throat of all the dust cascading off the rocky ceiling. Needless to say, this was no real adventure. And adventure was the Dragonborn's middle name!
Not really.
He was considering turning back when he swore he heard the scraping of boned feet on dirty, tunnel floor. Finally, he thought, turning to face the sound and inadvertently triggering a tripwire. A sudden parade of darts showered over him, forcing him to duck and block with his dingy, iron shield.
"For the love of-" Before he could finish, a dart flew right by his arm, skimming his dark flesh just a bare bit. He immediately reacted by pulling his shield-hand up to cover the wound, which in turn left him more vulnerable.
Here and there, darts pelted him. He lost control for a moment, twitching and turning with each new pain. It was a bit of chaos, and oh! Azura forbid the darts be poisoned!
But the Dragonborn didn't feel dizzy or sick. Not yet.
"Well, well…" A rattling voice broke through the man's frenzied thoughts. He looked up, just as the last dart struck his knee, to see who, or what, was speaking to him. And he kind of wished he hadn't.
A grotesque and skeletal figure stood before him in rags, dead eyes gleaming a piercing blue. A draugr.
A female draugr, by the looks of her antique jewelry clinging from wrist to neck and lean, fragile build. But she wasn't all beauty: drippy moss clung to her ribs and shoulders, there was something dark and slimy in her left eye socket, and a foul odor hung in the air around her. It would appear she had just crawled out of a scummy bog or the like.
The Dragonborn was speechless for a moment, but quickly regained composure and attempted to stand up before the creature. Alas, he was weak and slid back down against the dirty wall. His arms were too wounded for him to make a quick draw with his sword, so that wouldn't work, either.
He was pretty screwed.
"Going somewhere?" The draugr crossed her bony arms and maybe glared at him through her hollowed sockets. "Why leave so soon? Do you have any idea how lonely and boring it gets down here?"
There was no response that the Dragonborn could possibly think of.
It continued, "Of course not. You're not dead; not buried far below the earth where everyone can forget about you. No family. No siblings, parents. No lover." Her jaw opened in what might have been or could be a smirk. Perhaps the shape of laughter.
Still, our hero didn't say a thing. He was rolling over the right words in his mind, thinking of escape, but nothing came to his lips. He gazed down for just a moment at the crimson liquid creeping down his arms. He wasn't going anywhere.
The draugr unfolded her arms and, in an unhesitant manner, reached out and lightly touched a gash on the Dragonborn's shoulder.
The Elf cringed at the stinging pain and tried to flatten himself further against the wall, to little avail.
"So full. So warm. So alive. I'd almost forgotten what flesh felt like."
Somehow, even after all of her own flesh was gone and her body decayed back into nothing, this skeleton woman still had some stank breathe. Which made the Dragonborn cringe even more.
But what really freaked him out was her next words.
The draugr reached out and placed both her hands on the man's shoulders and whispered, "Maybe you can help me feel alive again. Yessss?"
"Uh, how about noooo?" The Dragonborn flung her arms off with what little strength he had left and managed to kick off and slide to the left. But just before he could make another standing attempt, the draugr caught hold of his arms with incredible strength. "Damn it! What are you doing?"
"I already told you," the creature spoke with something of humor in her dead voice, "You're going to help me feel alive again."
It was now that the Dark Elf wished his adventure in this dank crypt was like every other one. It was now that he hoped and prayed to any higher deity that would listen to him that this be just a nightmare.
Well, it kind of still was.
The stench of rot got stronger and stronger, and the Dragonborn was tempted to pinch his nose to relieve himself of the horrid odor, but it felt unfitting, and the draugr still had his wrists, anyway.
But she spoke no more. Instead, her actions revealed the horrendous desires she had tucked away in that non-existent mind. Slowly, like a saber cat tears a deer, she let go of the Dragonborn and began fondling with her ripped and torn garments.
"Please, no, Gods, no!"
But the plea went unheard as the skeleton continued stripping herself. She was more naked than the day she was born, right down to her pelvic bone.
Just as she was peeling off another ragged piece of cloth, she suddenly stopped and appeared taken aback, as if she just realized…
"I…I see…that I am nothing more than bone. But if I can't feel pleasure like I used to…maybe I can still pleasure you…and feel alive doing it."
And the following silence was filled with so much awkward that you could never fit it into description.
Still unable to move any of his limbs without dealing with the searing pain that would follow, the Dragonborn remained trapped against the crypt wall. His heart raced, but not with anticipation.
A cracking sound echoed from off in the caves somewhere, and he wondered if maybe there were more hormonal draugr lurking about. He prayed not. The last thing he wanted was some sort of undead gang-bang.
"Well?" The sound of the draugr's voice brought all consciousness back, and she seemed to be expecting something of the Dragonborn.
Confused and unsure, he remained still.
"Fine." The draugr would have rolled her eyes, had she had any, as she leaned in again and gripped the Dragonborn's leather-flanked trousers. She started tugging at the studded armor.
Had he not been paralyzed with a new and pounding fear, the Elf may have asked what in Azura's name the creature was doing. But he didn't really have to, because it was obvious, anyway. And he certainly wasn't going to lend a hand at the task.
Even with her brittle and bony arms, the draugr managed the heavy leather off and tossed it aside, then began working on the thin underclothes.
There was little left to obscure the Dragonborn's most private places. He thought to try kicking her square in her ribcage, hoping she would break and tumble. But then he remember how she had been so quick to catch his wrists the last time he attempted an assault.
"Gods, please, stop this," he pleaded once again, but was ignored by the not-so-mighty deities.
His skin crawled as the first nimble, bony finger reached around the strap of his loincloth. The draugr paused here, seemingly allowing the dread to sink into the Dragonborn's mind; to allow the terror to settle. And when she was sure of this, she broke the strap off with a thin and blunt "snap".
Slowly and teasingly, the creature dragged the cloth off and away to present the Dragonborn's manly man manhood.
Dat dark meat, tho.
The draugr would have licked her lips, had she a tongue, but instead stared through empty sockets. How she could register the glorious Dragonborn D in front of her without such sensory was beyond logic, yet she was totally able to dig the sight without sight.
And as if this lack of logic did not exist, she bent over and slid that fleshy appendage between her jaws. She wasn't at a loss of action, either, as she rubbed the head of the Dragonborn's cock against her inner mandibular.
The dryness of the bone could not possibly have felt any good at first, but the Dark Elf receiving the kinda'-sorta'-blowjob began to feel himself become ever so slightly erect. It was quite the odd feeling, to say the least.
Precum glistened on the moss-stained whiteness of the draugr's jaw. Maybe she would have lapped it up if she could. Regardless, she still seemed to be enjoying herself. With as much care as a skeleton could contain, she bobbed back and forth on that jolly rod.
The Dragonborn couldn't stop his jagged breathing, which surely made him look as if he actually enjoyed this. Which he kind of did, but he wasn't about to admit it.
Admit it to who, though? There was no one else around to witness this crime. Unless other draugr awakened. So, he thought, why not? And with a moment of readjusting himself against the cave wall, he steadied his erection and began bucking his hips to the motion of the draugr's own, oral thrusts.
While it all felt so horribly wrong, and the Gods were no doubt judging this act, the Dragonborn continued to milk this experience of enjoyment by gripping the draugr's skull and directing it around his dick the way it felt good for him. The act lacked the warmth and, well, flesh of a living woman, but hey.
The Dragonborn grunted, stiffening his back against the cave wall for leverage. He bucked and arched until his schlong would've choked the draugr, had she a throat. Plus one for the dead girl for not dying of deep-throating.
While she had no real way of communicating, the skeleton still managed little growls which, the Dragonborn guessed, were sounds of pleasure. That and the constant clacking of brittle, age-ridden bone.
At long last, the Dark Elf couldn't contain himself. Arching his back over and gripping the closest handle-like bone (a rib, maybe), he heaved and came all onto the draugr; her jaw, shoulders, neck and spine bones. It left a sticky shine. Like a new polish! Pretty.
With a great sigh of contentment, the Dragonborn completed his nasty deed.
He slumped back against the wall, but the draugr moved back just as he did, and so broke the rib that constituted as a love handle. It cracked a hollow kind of crack. Oh, well. She couldn't feel it.
"At lasssst, I can cross over," the creature hissed in a very demented way and suddenly burst into ashes. Ashes and love fluids. A remarkable pile of ashes and love fluids. And so ended that relationship.
The Dragonborn shrugged, recollected himself, and pulled all his clothes and armor back on. "Welp, time to find that loot and glory and stuff."
And he did.