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Thorfinn storms inside, all barely contained fire. Years hardened his body and his mind but the fury inside him remains wasteful, too loud. Askeladd watches him the way one watches a fire: aware of its heat and confident it will burn itself out. The man stays where he is, quiet and relaxed against the crate like a statement.
Their unspoken language is clear to Thorfinn, their quiet push and pull. He crosses the distance aggressively, crowding Askeladd's space, silent and loud at the same time and grabbing a collar with the same old demand he is unable to outgrow.
Every movement from Thorfinn is a desperate attempt to claim control and overwhelm, and Askeladd yields just enough to encourage it.
So he lets himself be pushed as that fierce entitlement builds. He lets Thorfinn clench his teeth and snarl. Letting the lad spend strength and breath and the storm rage unchecked before his eyes, and Thorfinn responds the only way he knows, the only way he wants to know: by letting his bitterness laid bare in their closeness for the universe to see, illuminated by the dim light bathing his big angry eyes.
When Thorfinn’s mouth crashes forward, it's a claim driven by maladaptive fury rather than desire. With hate, teeth, a tongue pushing too hard and all force without finesse, with those plump lips too full and soft-looking for a killer's face with a permanent scowl.
Full, fat lips. Askeladd can't help but notice them again amidst the violence of Thorfinn's assault. They weren't always like that for sure. What made them like that? Too many scowls puffing them up? It was almost funny, this grumpy, aloof, proud, killjoy of a lad with lips like ripe fruit.
Thorfinn kisses the way he fights: brave, stubborn, pressing hard with teeth catching in sharp and petulant retaliation, and with the taste of frustration clinging to his tongue.
Askeladd answers with just enough force to match his boldness, keeping the tides even with cunning, methodical restraint, and he allows a little taunt to slip between their mouths, once Thorfinn breaks the kiss with a wet noise to scowl even more.
“You’ve got some fat fucking lips, lad.” Askeladd’s voice stays sardonic, but the comment lands with intent, his gaze lowered and fixed on Thorfinn's lower lip being touched by his thumb. “I’ve kissed whores with lips far thinner than those.”
It does the trick. Thorfinn stiffens, bristling, and presses back in with revulsion making wrinkles on his face. "You disgust me," he replies, making sure venom drips from every syllable. "I'll be doing the world a favor when I kill you," he adds, as he yanks the older man back into another hostile, angrier kiss. His tongue too eager, his lips parting too wide. Biting down on Askeladd's lower lip and pulling with the clear intent to hurt.
A loud but soft chuckle answers the feisty lad between sloppy, violent kisses, as Askeladd chooses to make patience a weapon. A calloused hand settles at Thorfinn’s waist, not forceful, just placed there, grounding. Another follows on his hip when Thorfinn presses even more and forces him to taste his own blood, and Askeladd waits for the right moment as time deepens around them. When there's no space between their bodies and Thorfinn's breath grows heavier, his anger draining and his movements faltering, and when the heavy hands on his hips are the only thing remaining steady around the young man.
Where Thorfinn surges forward, Askeladd absorbs it, forcing Thorfinn to keep adjusting and compensate to no avail, and when the man finally moves, it’s fast and decisive. A calculated step taken when Thorfinn overcommits and tires himself out.
Suddenly the tide turns and the balance is gone. Thorfinn stumbles, caught and pinned against the wall, by timing first, then by brute strength when he tries to break free.
Thorfinn struggles once, twice, again and once more, and groans in tired frustration and bloody lips and teeth. There’s nothing left behind it. What remains is heat without direction and tension without leverage.
Askeladd holds him there, immovable. "I'm not about to refute that," he whispers on Thorfinn's ear, his thin lips brushing the earlobe and his goatee tickling Thorfinn's cheek. There’s no strain in his voice, just control.
Thorfinn jerks once more out of pure spite, testing the hold he already knows won’t give. The movement earns him nothing but a firmer pin.
“Bastard,” Thorfinn breathes, before lifting his chin in a gesture of defiance. Refusing to fold under Askeladd's hold, even now.
Blue eyes watch him, the way his breath is coming out of him uneven and rough, like a concession Thorfinn never agreed to make, despite him being the one forcing this stupid thing out of sheer entitlement. Incredibly amusing.
And even more amusing is the way Thorfinn surges forward again, swollen wet lips crashing into Askeladd’s with the taste of copper and ragged breath. It’s a kiss born from spite, from the need to take something even while being held fast; mouth hot and pressing hard like he can force the world to bend if he pushes enough. But his lips are still a bit too soft for how violent he is, bruised by his ineptitude to control himself.
Askeladd kisses him back again, guiding the rhythm this time. Leading and teaching, feeling those lips yielding to the lead, eating Thorfinn's low gasps between firm slides of tongue. Fucking his mouth as Thorfinn opens up and presses back and fists Askeladd's hair once his wrist is free from its restraint.
And Askeladd clicks his tongue at the sensuality of Thorfinn's fat lips sliding eagerly against his mouth, once the lad is getting led and stops kissing like an angry wet dog.