thewidewideworld | (no subject)

Ragnar takes Sinric's face warmly in both his hands, and kisses him deeply.

Sinric moans into the kiss, opening himself to it. He want this, wants to surrender himself utterly to it and let all other worries melt.

"Sinric!"

Ragnar's hands slide up into the golden hair.

Sinric's own hands slip under Ragnar's tunic, small and warm over Ragnar's lower back. He tilts his head back into Ragnar's hand, wanting and needing to feel the strength in Ragnar's touch.

Ragnar kisses him, eagerly and deeply; his fingers stroke Sinric's scalp and neck.

Sinric pulls him gently towards the bed. Wanting Ragnar's weight on top of him. Wanting skin and need and lust and love.

Ragnar follows, willing and eager. This may be the last time to touch for a very long time, probably for them both.

Sinric pulls at Ragnar's clothes, hurried and hungry. "I want-" he moans between kisses, between throwing down Ragnar's belt. "I want you not to be gentle with me. I want to feel you. I want marks on me I can see for days."

RAgnar kicks off his boots and grabs Sinric's clothes. "You want a big, strong Viking?"

Sinric squeaks a breathless laugh as he tangles up in his own clothes, wriggling free. "I want you, Ragnar. All of you. I want to remember this for the days till next we meet."

"All of me all over you, and in you?" Ragnar purrs, moving in again to hungrily kiss Sinric.

"Yes!" Sinric moans, kicking off the last of his clothes and pulling Ragnar back onto the bed. "In my body. In my heart. In my soul."

Ragnar covers him, strong and big and warm. "Yes," he moans. "Where is?"

Sinric's soft chuckles becomes a warm moan as Ragnar's hot body covers him - strong and wonderful. A theological debate about the soul can wait. He wraps his legs around Ragnar's waist, pressing against him.

"Where is the oil?" Ragnar gasps, hardly able to keep himself from pushing right against Sinric in the sudden burning desire that grips him.

A much more practical question than that about the soul.

Much. Sinric flails out a hand, finding the little tube of future time lube next to one of this books. "You don't need much." He pants, riding against Ragnar's manhood eagerly.

"That is oil?" Ragnar gasps when a clear gel oozes from the tube, but he sloppily smears some onto Sinric and himself, and then -- finally!! -- pushes inside, where he wants to be.

Any explanation gets lost on the sweet, breathless cry of joy as Ragnar enters Sinric. Just as he hoped, the burn of being taken is perfect. Caught between pleasure and pain, reshaped as Ragnar fills him.

Ragnar thrusts, unable to stop himself. Sinric is tight and hot and welcoming and perfect.

"Yes! Oh yes!"

Nor does Sinric want him to, clinging to Ragnar and pushing back against him. "Yes, Ragnar! Yes."

"Too fast!" Ragnar manages to protest, while still thrusting wildly.

"Don't care." Sinric gasps in answer. They have all night and he knows Ragnar can be roused again later.

Ragnar tries to slow down nevertheless, aiming himself for the sweet spot inside Sinric.

He finds it and Sinric bucks sharply. Far from being passive, he pushed back against each thrust, lithe body undulating under Ragnar, his hand firm around the globes of Ragnar's ass.

"Yes," Ragnar says, "that!"

The feeling of being desired like this spurs him on.