Jesper doesn't have to beg, but...well, it definitely doesn't hurt. Every word carried by that low, throaty tone throbs through Wilhelm, hot in his blood. Fuck me. He always thought it sounded so harsh, fucking. An act committed without any measure of affection, an act that reduces a person to parts of their body. But as he thrusts into Jesper again — as if aiming to knock the air out of his chest, to collapse their bodies into one — he realizes it can be an act of wild joy too. An act that completely lifts you out of yourself.

And he's always ready to leave himself behind.

Now that they've abandoned that slow, purposeful pace, the pleasure singing under his skin slurs together, blurs all borders between him and Jesper. He smears kisses along the curve of Jesper's neck, the line of his collarbone. Spills groans there, too. Reaching between them, he strokes Jesper's cock in rhythm with his reckless thrusting.

Now, Wilhelm is the one giving instructions.

"Flip over," he urges in a breathless rush, hands frantic at Jesper's hips. When he's not fretting over what to say or how it sounds, the dirty talk that Jesper pours out so smoothly comes more easily. "You're gonna...make me come—"

And he wants to try one more thing.