#nsfw-two

Sharp, desperate breaths escape his nose. The pain on his lip throbs. It’s dull and tastes of metal. His teeth sink deeper with each thrust that comes from behind. Your hands travel up the plains of his back, each dip and curve of his scars rough terrain your palms glide through. He feels the room is stuffy, the air filled with the smell of sweat and sex.

It feels mind-numbingly good, but that’s what scares him.

He feels you shift behind him, leaning forward until your chest kisses his back. The light pressure you hug him with is, in a way, comforting. But as if on instinct he spreads his knees and buries himself into the bed to escape your burning touch. He stiffens when you follow him, pressing closer until he has no where to run.

“Raud,” you whisper in his ear, the warm breath tickling his ear. “I want to hear you.”

He doesn’t reply. He refuses to. No one would want to hear the horrible sounds that come from his mouth. He bites down harder on his lip, wincing at the pain it brings. But pain is a familiar feeling—a feeling he deserves far more than pleasure.

“Raud,” he hears again. A soft hand slides to cup his jaw, guiding it to turn. He peeks with one eye. His heart leaps at the sight.

Your hair is disheveled, strands wildly tangled from when Raud gripped too hard. Some are stuck to your forehead, where sweat glistens under the gentle torch light. He follows one streak as it slowly trails down the side of your face, quickly distracted by your swollen lips. A kiss shared one too many times. It leaves your pretty reds raw and glossy. But he also notices the tightness, the furrow of your sweaty brow and the way your lips fall at the corners. His heart dips.

Are you mad at him?

“Do not hurt yourself.” Your thumb gently grazes his lips. He understands now. The look you adorn is one of worry—not anger. “Release yourself.”

He obeys the command like the mutt he is. You wipe the droplets of red from his bottom lip with your thumb, pulling back. He watches as you stare at the crimson drip down your hand. A look darkens your eyes, and you catch his gaze. When he tries to look away, you catch his jaw with your other hand.

“Watch me.”

You bring your thumb to your lips. Raud’s heart stills, his eyes widen. Your tongue peeks out and you lick the red, slowly—deliberately, as you keep your eyes trained on him. He tries to turn, but the tight hand on his jaw keeps his locked in place. Your tongue retracts, and he sees the apple in your throat bob. The red that remains is gone in seconds as you lick a long trail up your hand, letting no blood of his go to waste.

He gulps as you rest both hands on either side of his head. You loom over him, your eyes dark with desire—want.

“I want to hear you.” You thrust, rocking him gently as he gasps. “All of you, okay?”

He nods, because you command him. All of him. Even if all of him is ugly, vile, unsightly.

And like you can read his thoughts, you speak, “You are beautiful. And I want everything you can offer.”

He shuts his eyes as your hands squeeze his waist, nails digging into his skin. You pull out, only leaving a part of yourself inside.

“I do not want to.”

You pout, your gaze lingering on his arms, watching how they flex just above his godly chest. “But I do. It is always the other way around. It is not fair!”

"But you like it." His eyes snap to yours, widening slightly with a hint of panic. “…Right?"

You bite down a grin. “I do, but I want to try something new. If you do not enjoy it, I will never ask again.” You clasp your hands in front of your face and his. “Please, Gungir.”

He eyes them with pursed lips. The blue, usually lighter than sunlight, is now dark and dim. His lids are heavy with thought, and you feel yourself licking your lips at the sight because it’s so obvious lust lingers in the air between you.

Your hands are moist, the longer you hold on to the damp heat between your palms, the wetter they get. The apple in Gungir’s throat slowly bobs. Up, then down. And you know, just then, that you’ve won. A smirk slithers up your face. Gradually, you lower and unclasp your hands, careful so as not to scare the wide-eyed doe before you. But this isn’t enough for you. You need audible confirmation, you need him to say yes.

So you make your move. You can’t hold back anymore. Your nails dig into the skin of his waist, pulling him forward until you’re flush against each other. “Say it, Gungir,” you whisper in a single breath, hot against his ear.

You start simple, kissing the red between his neck, and he shudders, but doesn’t pull away. So you bite down, overcome with ache, and he flinches. “Sorry,” you say mindlessly, soothing the spot of possession with a messy strip of saliva.

His large hands encompass your back hesitantly. “You will be gentle… right?” he asks, his voice raw, and so genuinely innocent it has the heat between your legs tightening. Gods, he’s so different like this. So docile, so yielding.

“So fucking gentle.” You trail up his neck with sloppy kisses, making sure to mark him with the shine from your mouth. His beard is rough against your skin, and you live for the way it scratches your jaw. Impatiently, you make your way to his lips, but refuse to plant yours against his.

“Why?” he asks, his eyes hazily focused on your lips. It’s so obvious what he wants. His warm breath is shallow against your face. Your fingers trail down his spine, and to the indent just above his ass. There, you allow your hands to rest—to toy with the hem of his pants. Anything further requires that simple word, yes.

“I need you to say it, Gungir.” Your eyes meet his, and again, the apple in his throat bobs. His hands clench at your tunic.

You see how his head spins. His gaze is unfocused, and his words are breathy. “Say—say what?”

“You know what.” You lean forward, brushing the skin of your lips against his, but not enough for him—or you—to be satisfied.

“I, uh.” You crave moments such as these; where both your desires are at a standstill, and neither has the strength to make it flourish into something more. On the other side, pure pleasure awaits. The longer the wait, the stronger the pleasure will be. So you wait, and wait, and wait until you have him shaking with want. “Yes.”

A grin spreads across your face, and your lips finally meet. You kiss him with your tongue the captain. His moans and yours intertwine into the hot and stuffy air around you. Your hunger has you melting into his body until the both of you are one. You plunge your hand down his trousers, and he startles.

His composure falters, and his lips slow. It leaves you to pick up pace—a pace Gungir struggles to meet. You want to overwhelm him, see the red of his neck travel down to his chest, and up to his face.

You want him to beg for more.

Thyra: If she hates you, she genuinely hates you. There's no space for sexual tension because the hatred leaves no room for it.

Gungir: He doesn't hate anyone, so if you manage to get him riled up, there is NO way you're getting to the fucking stage.

Raud: I think it's an obvious no. He won't do anything sexual with a person he doesn't completely trust.

Anne: If you get Anne to hate you, she would leave. And morally, she will never hate fuck, or fuck in general. She would make love.

Thyra:

Same sex: switch, sub.

Opposite sex: bottom, sub.

Gungir:

Same sex: top, verse, he can bottom but you need to convince him.

Opposite sex: top, dom.

Raud:

Same sex: switch, sub.

Opposite sex: top, verse.

Anne:

Same sex: switch, verse when she gets more comfortable.

Opposite sex: bottom, sub.

???:

Gungir would still have some remaining anger from the argument before (depending on what it was about) and if he saw you having "an angry wank," he would use that remaining anger to...help...

It's also a way for him to release the fire that burns in his chest and after the flame has been burned out, he would go back to apologizing and fretting over your well-being, wondering if he was too rough or anything like that.