"Rebellion," Valkyrie Profile: Silmeria, Arngrim/Hrist, BDSM, You let me desecrate you
There is no honor in allowing this to happen. Hrist wonders if Silmeria thought of that, too, if she cared -- if she found it appealing, even, if it was the reason for her outrageous liaison. If anyone, save another valkyrie, could possibly see this for what it is.
She keeps her eyes closed, not even trying to see under the edges of the blindfold. There would be no point to that. She was the one who wanted it. He was the one who chose to bind her hands -- behind her back, as though she were a criminal going to the gallows -- and Hrist clenches her fists so tight they shake, so that she will not break the leather thongs and pull free when Arngrim takes a fist full of her hair and drags her down by it, so that she staggers and sinks ungracefully to her knees.
"Even a god likes to get dirty sometimes, huh?" he says.
"Damn you," Hrist spits. He was rough with her when he believed her mortal, but this is more than roughness, as if he could prove something by being cruel enough. As if she could prove something by letting him.
"You already did," Arngrim says, the metal of his belt buckle clinking.
Hrist bites her tongue not to argue -- what she did to him was an honor, and he repays her like this? And he dares accuse her of arrogance?
"Here," he says. "See if you can make it up to me."
Fury spikes in Hrist's veins sharper and hotter than Odin's mead, enough to make her dizzy with its intensity, but for all that she still parts her lips, still doesn't break her bonds when Arngrim takes her mouth. She chokes on his length, on the raw, earthy scent of a mortal man's sweat, and the easy violence of his thrusts makes her ache, makes her feel swollen and slick between her thighs even when the anger will not abate. No man should treat a god like this. But he has no fear of her, and she does not stop him.
He should speak, now, should tell her all these things she is thinking. He should call her the harlot she plays. But he does this for his own satisfaction, not hers, and holds his tongue. Even when he spends in her mouth, he scarcely makes a sound -- she almost does not hear him, as she coughs, sputters -- and he does not release her, does not withdraw until she has swallowed his seed. He is bitter on the back of her tongue.
Arngrim hauls her to her feet with the same careless grip on her hair, and Hrist snarls despite herself. She stumbles, and he pulls her close against his chest.
"Not bad," he says. "You surrender pretty easily for someone so proud, don't you?"
"What would you know?" Hrist asks. She should stop this now. He's gotten what he wants, and she's had her act of --
Only Arngrim's other hand pushes between her legs, through the slit in her skirt, to grab her there, the heel of his hand pressed against her flesh and his callused fingers sinking into her easily on her slickness. The moan tears free from Hrist's throat despite her clenched teeth, and at that, finally, Arngrim growls back. He is as relentless in giving her pleasure as he was in taking it, holding her tight against him and thrusting roughly inside her. It is a raw, angry pleasure he offers her, drawing ragged protests from her that she cannot find the self-control to silence. She turns her head, bites down on the broad muscle of his chest, the taste of leather against her tongue as he brings her to climax -- out of defiance, it must be, out of rebellion, as much as her willingness to submit to a mortal in the first place.
She pulls away from him as soon as she's sure she will be steady on her feet, and the leather thongs snap when she gives them one good tug. When she pulls the blindfold from her eyes, Arngrim is watching her, eyes narrowed in the same angry, mistrustful expression he had when she first brought him to Valhalla.
"So that was just a game to you, huh?" he says.
Hrist lets him see her massaging away the rawness in her wrists. "Nothing that I do is a game," she says. She turns her back. She owes him no explanation.