#scenario-ask

[thewrothode-if]

A King's Bath

Water the color of earth swirls around him, warm and comforting, cradling him like soil does a tree. For a fleeting moment, he feels like a king. Yet the reality is far from regal. He is just a man, bathing in his own filth. The sight is shameful—a bright sheen of grease floating on the surface, catching the light like a mocking crown.

The moment abruptly ends. He plummets from his lofty perch, the harsh winds clawing at him as gravity drags him down. He shuts his eyes tight, clenching his fists until his nails dig into his palms.

“Raud, is this good?” your voice pulls him from the fall, embracing him gently as he floats back to reality.

He flutters his eyes open. Blurry vision grows focused with each blink until he sees the room for what it is. A wooden bath, short walls and gentle hands on his head, their touch soft and soothing as they massage him.

“Raud?” you ask again, and it is now that he realizes he forgot to respond.

“Y-yes.” He did not mean to stutter, but it is too late to try again. He sees the water once more and remembers the feeling of the fall. Shame crawls through the small hole of his chest until its ripping its way out.

You chuckle before speaking, “You are as dirty as a stray pup.”

His chest dips. He is filthy, he knows, but hearing someone say it is a knife to the heart. He feels himself sink into the water made of dirt, colored brown and oiled with his muck. His cheeks burn and when a warm hand slides under his jaw, forcing his head back, they burn brighter.

You arch a brow, your gaze fixed on him with such intensity that he begins to feel stripped bare, as though even his skin offers no cover. A smile tugs at your lips, soft yet teasing. "I love pups," you murmur, “much like I love you.”

Your fingers brush his cheek, wiping away a stray mark. He doesn’t mean to, but he leans into your touch. The gentle caress you offer is one he would savor for all of eternity if he had the choice.

“Are you comfortable?”

He nods, his eyes fluttering shut as he sinks into the warmth of your hand gently rubbing his head.

“Good. You deserve it.”

He almost opens his mouth to argue, the words forming sharp and ready, but a hand—your hand—rests gently against him, a quiet comfort that holds his protest at bay.

“From now on, I will make sure you get your baths.”

Raud frowns. “I am not a child.”

“You are not, but I know you well enough to know you will not take these baths without my command. You are my beloved, and I want my beloved to feel his very best.”

Raud shakes his head without meaning to. It’s an instinct, to refuse any kind words sent his way. A hand catches his jaw once more.

"You will feel clean, good. I will make sure of it," you assert firmly, tilting his head gently with your hand. "Understood?"

He bats his eyelashes. Your skin is so smooth… “Yes.”

“Good.” You smile softly, your eyes shining with a gentle light. “Now stand up, we are done.”

Raud blinks. Already?

He hears you shift behind him. Your hands fall from his jaw, and instantly he misses the feeling. The scalding water has been blown cold by time, no longer does it warm his skin as it did before. So leaving is not a challenge. He lifts himself from the bath, the water pulling at him to stay. When he steps out, he feels your eyes on him like a chilly hand.

You observe, slowing unraveling a rag, your eyes heavy with dissection. Raud forgets how to breathe. When you step up to him, finally meeting his gaze, he inhales sharply. You smile, tilting your head.

“Shy?”

He shakes his head even though he most certainly is.

“I have seen you naked how many times now?” you whisper, a coy smile tugging on your lips.

Raud gulps, he refuses to answer.

“Would it help if I were naked too?”

Yes. “No—“ Raud almost swallows his tongue. “N-no.”

Your smirk grows as your hands slither down your tunic. His hands move fast as they grip your own. He shakes his head again and you giggle. The sound dips his heart in a boiling cauldron.

“I tease.” You kiss his cheek, too fast for him. “I can undress later.” You wink, wiping him dry with the rag.

He feels shame to be so eager for time to pass by fast.

[thewrothode-if]

Nsfw ask but speaking of best boy Raud’s scars, how would he react to a gentle, top mc that would kiss his scars and tell him he’s pretty while they’re going at it AND ofc aftercare 😫 (he deserves it)

I got distracted and wrote a whole scene that barely relates to this ask. My bad, y'all.

Raud is honestly a great bottom, and he enjoys it. He's a switch at heart because he loves you so much he would enjoy anything you offer him. But with a male MC, bottom is honestly his middle name.

Now a top MC that gives him the princess treatment? He's in love. He will try to say otherwise, of course. But we all know he loves it. Each gentle praise you sing his way has his heart leaping out of his chest. He is dead and has ascended to heaven.

Now, I hope you enjoy this scenario:

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.

“Now scream my name.”

[thewrothode-if]

I've been stalking your page and if I saw correctly we might be able to top Gungir as a male MC? *Rubs hands together like a fly*🫳🏽

"Absolutely not," Gungir’s voice is harsh—sharp, cutting through the air like a final verdict. There's no room for argument, no chance to sway him.

"Please, Gungir. Only once!”

The both of you stand at the end of a bed. Gungir’s chest is bare, yet yours is not. The sight of his powerful form, tense and crossed has you frowning. But the hunger from his naked skin clouds your mind and you can’t help but focus on anything but.

“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.

And you always get what you want.

[thewrothode-if]

Are you still doing the prompts? If so could you give us “Are you going to kiss me again or do I have to do it myself?” Or “I think I’m falling in love with you” for Thyra? Thanks!!

The rustle of the leaves is the only sound you hear apart from your managed shallow breath. The reindeer chews at the grass below meters from where you sit. You and Thyra had scared it away from its herd moments before and now, you crouch behind a tree attempting to catch your breath, though not loudly enough to scare the reindeer away and fan the flames Thyra had so desperately tried to restrain.

You take a breath that seems too ideal to relish, immediately eyeing Thyra. Her jaw clenches, tightening then releasing. She squints sharply at you, a warning to hush. You nod slowly, turning to the reindeer before she can notice the smile forming on the edges of your lips. It seems the reindeer doesn’t know you’re here. If it did, it would have run away by now. Before that can happen, Thyra lifts her bow, slowly and calculated, following the path she marked in her head to avoid rustling the leaves in front.

Her left palm faces you, open and waiting for an arrow. You take one out your quiver, making sure to hold the contact of her skin when handing it over. You feel a shiver run through her and she freezes, shooting you a glare before snatching the arrow a little too vociferously. Her breath is as shallow as yours was seconds ago and her hand shakes with the absence of the steadiness she always owns.

You can’t help but smile, the need to feast gone from your mind. As she focuses on her target, you lean towards her, the tension in her shoulders rising the closer you get. Just as she’s ready to release the arrow, you blow and the arrow goes flying, but not in the direction she had planned for. Both of you stare at the reindeer that takes this chance to run, but only you follow it with a proud smile on your lips.

Thyra huffs, standing. “Are you a crown idiot?”

Your smile grows. “This waiting was a bore.”

Her lips rise into a snarl, though her tone far from angry. “You’re a bore.”

You chuckle, walking towards her with a slow teasing step as she finds herself backed into a tree. “Oh stop! I might fall for you if you keep insulting me like that, I quite like it.”

Her brows fly up and her lips press together. She doesn’t say anything, but her shallow breath returns. You find yourself comfortable with your arms placed between her, the skin of your palms digging into the tough bark behind. You lean close enough to see the details of her eyes, she inhales, waiting for you to do the very thing you choose not to do.

“Are you going to kiss me or do I have to do it myself, Thyra?”

She swallows and tilts her head forward with hidden eagerness.

[thewrothode-if]

“i didn’t know where else to go” + Gungir 👀

The sun had gone a long while ago. It had whispered its goodbyes with a promise of rising again in the morrow, leaving you without warm comfort or light to see the door you stand before. In this dark, it’s a daunting one. A perfect symbol of all the fears you didn’t wish to face, but here you are. You had gone over every edge of its wood, taking in the nicks and dents, the dried herbs that decorated the sides and the metal handle which had been tilted and stuck like that ages ago. By this time you raised your fist to knock more times than you could count, each time freezing moments before the flesh of your palm would meet with the door.

You will do it this time. A tenuous promise you make to yourself. Slowly, once more, you raise your hand, taking in a deep breath before swinging your fist forward. The door opens and you break the promise that was meant to be. Before you stands Gungir. It shocks you, though it shouldn’t. This is his dwelling. Still your breath escapes you and you mirror the shock in his eyes.

“Why are you here?” he asks first, not with ire nor with irritation, but with ready understanding. He never reacts the way you think he would or maybe you want him to react so. It could light the match and set the raging fire you hold inside yourself, forgiving you of any abuse you spew afterwards, but the match never lights and the fire always dulls.

You stare at him, your voice gone. His brows quirk downwards before releasing themselves along with the slightest tension in his shoulders. A realization passes through his eyes. It is now that you find the courage to speak. “I had no where to go.” You sound pathetic, even to yourself. You voice is hoarse and quieter than the gentlest breeze in summer. You cheeks burn. You hope he can’t see it.

He nods with a smile so small you’re glad you didn’t miss. “Come inside. I’ll get you some water.”

Never before have you been so scared to enter a home. You had gone on raids and had your fair share of moments where you thought you had entered Valhalla, but nothing ever felt such as this. You find the courage to lift your foot and step forward, into the warmth and the light even the sun couldn’t be able to mirror.