middaeg | [closed] why don't you tell me what do you need

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[closed] why don't you tell me what do you need

Who: Diarmuid and Berserker
When: Late June
Where: The Coven
What: Walking Disasters of varying degrees of messiness make either a very good or very bad decision and Bond.
Warnings: ~~whoops this got spicy~~ nsfw

[Tuesday at the Coven, 8pm, if your mind is still made up.

Though Diarmuid knows that Berserker isn’t the kind of man that will go back on his word or shrink away from a difficult task, he still wouldn’t blame him if he decided not to show up. After all, he himself had started to have a few doubts about the whole thing upon initiating that temporary Bond with Waver. Now that he’s experienced it for himself, the reality of what he's agreed to has made itself very clear. Is he ready for what he might find in Berserker's mind? Or, for that matter, the potential ache of what quiet, deeply buried self-truths might be unearthed in his own?

Well, it hardly matters. The fact is that the vow that they’re supposed to swear to each other in the ceremony was, in his eyes, already half made on that night in the maze. Whatever uncertainties he might have felt in the past few days, they've never lasted long against the memory of Berserker's eyes, wild with something uncontrollable and animalistic. No, he has a duty to uphold the promise he made as a Knight and- strange though it is to think it- someone who was gifted with his trust. Speaking of which, he’s given only a small amount of thought to the words he’s going to be speaking tonight and he would wager that Berserker has devoted even less to it, if any at all. But it’s fine. They’ll discuss it when the time comes. There are only a handful of things that Diarmuid is set on including and none of them are likely to be sentiments that he'll object to anyway.

As things are, the Lancer-turned-witch has declined waiting in the well-lit lobby in favour of taking a seat on the steps of one of the many grand entrances to the Coven. The summer sun has long since given way to a cooler evening and, in the gloom, he makes for a particularly solitary figure in his dark cloak. With only a small orb of light- a spell he’s mastered since their expedition- bobbing around his head for a light and nerves starting to gnaw at his resolve, it’s no wonder that he’s paying very little attention to the book in his lap.

... the nature of the lycanthrope’s relationship with the full moon is a double edged sword, drawing them further from their humanity but...

He snaps it shut.

In some ways, Berserker really is much easier to handle than Waver. Hopefully, he won’t keep him waiting too long. Sighing, he glances back up into the courtyard, brushing aside that defiant curl as he tries to pick out the large, prowling shape of the other Servant.]

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[They aren't words softened by sympathy or sweetened by a desire for ingratiation but there's no malice there either- and he accepts every one without even so much as a hint of doubt. As Diarmuid watches him, the light from the magic circle catching the tattoos across his cheeks and eyes in a scarlet glow, it's with a look of hope. Please let him live up to Berserker's expectations, let him not fall where he so often has.

And, more than anything else, please let this bond hold stronger than those that have come before.]

... thank you.

[It's all he can think to say- but perhaps there's no need for it when the returned gesture of a simple bow of his own speaks volumes.

How was it they described the spell? A tying together of energies? Certainly, as the ceremony reaches its climax and the witch in charge rounds it out, again, he finds himself tuning out a little- this time as he tries to adjust to the unnatural affinity that now exists between himself and Berserker. Something vague and pleasant and hazy, more dreamlike than truly palpable. Whether or not it will last beyond the circle doesn't matter. Right now, he's satisfied to let every breath match his partner's.

Softly, almost without thinking-]

Does your heart ever beat faster?

[ The hope in his eyes gives him a sense of satisfaction. Good, he's motivated -- this may last longer than he thought. Who knows, this may turn out to be a more permanent bond that either of them anticipate. Time will tell.

The sensation of the bond is strange -- to be so in tune with someone else after shutting people out. It gives him pause, steadying himself for a moment. How could he put this feeling into words? It was impossible. So unusual, so different...The edges of his mind are calmed, though. If this sensation lasts beyond this ritual, he would be grateful.

He responds to Diarmuid's question in an equally soft voice. It's uncharacteristic in volume, but not in tone -- that apathy is still there. ]

You'll find out soon enough, won't you?

[Maybe it's just that he had expected it to feel more like the bond between a Master and Servant- although, admittedly, his last experience with that was far from the norm. Either way, it's hardly comparable. There's a new stability and clarity to the magic flowing through him; he hadn't even realised before how toxic it had become until now.

Maybe that's partly why Berserker's answer brings a slightly giddy smile to his face.]

I hope so.

[The ceremony draws to a close practically without his noticing but, as the sigils beneath their feet lose their glow, he releases only one of Berserker's hands. The other stays firmly in his grip for as long as the other Servant will allow- or until he realises that he's still holding it and gets embarrassed. Now that they've been tied together on a supernatural level, it seems pointless to cling to the physical equivalent but he can't help but want to bask in it anyway.]

[ Berserker manages something resembling a smile -- it's not quite right, but it's an attempt. He doesn't let go of Diarmuid's hand, actually content to hold it. Despite their deeper link now, the physical touch is somewhat comforting.

As things draw to a close and they're ushered away, a thought occurs to him. After something so significant, he doesn't quite want to be alone right now. It's a very rare occurrence, as he's normally very eager to isolate himself. He doesn't really want to ask, hesitating. ]

... Are you free for awhile longer? I'd like some company for once.

[For a moment there, Diarmuid wasn't sure if he was capable of a smile that wasn't a smirk or sharp enough to feel like a weapon all of itself. It's... rewarding. Encouraging. So, he indulges himself and keeps his fingers laced through his in spite of how foolishly sentimental it seems.

Still, it's with a surprised look that he glances back at Berserker. He wants company? Are the moons full and perfectly aligned with one of the many consellations he's been learning about or is this because of the Bonding ceremony?]

Of course. [Even if he had wanted to, he wouldn't have turned him down.] I'd offer to buy you a drink but I'm light-headed enough as it is.

[ Part of it is curiosity -- what changes when one's bonded to another person? He also wants, in some way, to repay Diarmuid's faith in him. Berserker still feels that it's terribly misplaced, but that's okay -- it's something to be cherished. There's no need to keep him loyal, of course, but a courtesy paid to him is the least he could do. It's also a selfish desire, seeking the comfort of physical affection once again. Wei Wuxian, unfortunately, made him realize how much he missed such a thing. ]

I was thinking of something more private, if possible.

[ A loaded statement, in some ways. ]

[More private?

Wherever you would prefer.

Diarmuid really does mean to say it. The words even rest on the tip of his tongue for a few, delicate moments before, entirely against his usual sense of decorum, he opts for something equally as loaded. Maybe it's the comfortable lightness in his body, the buzz from the ceremony but he's feels so much more at ease than he had before. Enough, it seems, to be a touch more bold than before. It's the kind of thing he might have laughed playfully about with Fionn or Oscar in better times.]

You sound like you're courting me. [A beat- then he actually does laugh, albeit self-affacingly.] I'm sorry, I shouldn't tease. Please, lead the way.

I'd be much more direct if I were doing such a thing.

[ Lacking a place of his own, the most private places he knows are the brothels. Most will rent a room to almost anyone for as short or as long as they'd like, so long as they pay. The unfortunate consequence of the location was the implication that came with it.

So be it. There are worse people he could be mistaken for sleeping with.

He leads Diarmuid towards the inappropriate district, remembering a particular one that was more kind to monsters like himself. The one where one of the women working wanted to give him a flower, but was too shy...She remembers him, of course, and now he's here with a different man, in better condition than before. It's a little bit of an awkward conversation, but he deals with it to get a decent rate on a private room.

Ah. Right. ]

This location doesn't bother you, does it? If I had a private place of my own, I would've gone there instead.

[ Maybe now he'd start seeking out a more permanent residence... ]

[That's true; he suspects that Berserker's courtship rituals would, in the highly unlikely event that they exist, would be every bit as brutish as his fighting style. But it seems, unwittingly, he's somewhat hit the right tone with his quip. They leave the Coven's grounds and head into the city proper- just not to a part he's spent much time in. It's only when a merrow passes by, arm in arm with a pink-cheeked client, that it clicks that they're in the middle of the red light district.

Naturally, while Berserker couldn't care less about reputation, Diarmuid is far more wary; he keeps his head down, simply following his partner in silent bewilderment. Why here? No, wait. He thinks he knows the answer to that and it's more aggressively blunt than clandestine: a brothel, for all the ill repute that comes with it, thrives on discretion.]

... your idea of privacy is... [a mystery] something. But it can't be helped. We wouldn't be able to go back to my apartment either, I guess.

[Now they're here, would be uncouth to make him pay. Diarmuid fishes around in his pocket, producing enough coins to cover at least half of the fee and pressing them into his hand. It hasn't escaped his attention that the woman he barters with already appears to know Berserker but that's a story for another time, perhaps.

As soon as they're alone, he shrugs off his cloak, drapes it across a chair and sinks back against the door with a soft sigh. Only then does he lift his him back up, treating Berserker to a curious look.]

[ It takes Berserker a moment to relax, not anxious, but not exactly comfortable. His pulse quickens for a just a moment before he regains his normal calm. There's no real subtle way of doing this, so he approaches Diarmuid, looking down at him. He invades his personal space, the slightest gap between them. He's not even trying to be intimidating, it just happens. ]

I want to repay you for keeping faith in me. However you might like that, I will do what you ask.

[ It's still too much for him to ask for physical affection directly, though. He wants to be touched and petted, but that's something he views as a weakness -- if someone chooses to do it, he'll accept it, but he can't bring himself to ask for it. There's a want and a desire, covered up by his need to appear strong. ]

[The pause that follows can only be five seconds at most but it feels, to Diarmuid at least, simultaneously like far longer and far less. Not enough time to get a read on him but just enough to doubt his own judgement. What is it that Berserker's offering? Were he anyone else, in this situation with that build up, it would be obvious but he can't bring himself to take those implications at face value. Rewarding him with those kinds of favours would be an insult to both of them wouldn't it?

Is he off the mark? And, if not, what is it that he's missing?]

... there's nothing I want as repayment. I couldn't call myself a knight without loyalty.

[He hesitates. Their Bond is fresh, energised by the ritual, and yet-]

But... if, as your partner, I might- [Slowly, tentatively, he reaches out to cup his face in his hands. It's barely the ghost of a touch but it's gratifying to be so close anyway.] - I...

[ Berserker leans into the touch, closing his eyes. He nuzzles Diarmuid's hand a bit like a dog. It may be just a delicate sensation right now, but it's exactly what he wants. More of that. ]

Do what feels right. [ He murmurs, opening his eyes just a little. ] I'll accept your affection.

[ He lifts his hand to gently stroke the Lancer's cheek with the back of his fingers. An uncharacteristically tender touch from him -- it's what feels right. This place has transformed him in more than one way, a grudging admission he makes to himself. Layers of scar tissue peeled back to reveal a very human need. It feels different to submit to these urges with his newly bonded partner than it did to just allow someone to pet him to settle his mind. ]

[Uncharacteristic is right- the touch catches Diarmuid so off guard that he nearly flinches away.

Nearly.

Tonight has been a series of questionable decisions but this has to be the most questionable of all. The same irrepresible, vibrant recklessness that sent him after a boar too powerful for his blades against every instinct telling him not to has him ignoring the warning signs and leaning closer.]

... as you wish.

[Is this really just for his benefit? Now that there's hardly a breath between them, the way Berserker nestles into his touch has a faint neediness to it- one that he's all too willing to oblige. Diarmuid leaves one hand resting against his jaw, allowing the other to trail upwards and gently massage his temple. No relief he could provide could ease the tension there and still he finds himself trying.]

[ It's an exercise in lowering the barriers between them, or at least that's how Berserker rationalizes it. He lets very few people get this close to him, but there's no reason to keep Diarmuid away. This is for his benefit to build his confidence.

Is that the real reason? Who knows. It's the only one Berserker will admit to if he's asked. He continues to stroke Diarmuid's cheek as he brings up his other hand to play with that defiant curl. It's just for a moment, winding it around his finger before releasing it. An impulsive urge satisfied. He moves that hand into his hair, pressing the pads of his fingers against his scalp, mindful of his claws.

His attention is split between caressing Diarmuid's hair and face and pressing into the affections he's being given. It's almost too much for him to deal with -- it's more affection than he's been given in as long as he can remember and more than he's given himself. Now that the walls are falling away, he just wants more. ]

[He wants to kiss him. The urge comes so suddenly, so quietly, like a blade slipped beneath ribs, that he almost does it without thinking. Why not? Why not break that next boundary? It would be wrong to say he's touch starved but there's no denying that it's been a very long time since he was this intimate with someone. It just so happens that it's someone it absolutely shouldn't be for so many reasons.

He wants to kiss him.

He doesn't. At the last moment, a flicker of panic stops him. More than most, Diarmuid is well aware of the dangers of giving into an impulsive, foolhardy attraction. Damn it- the fact that he's even considering it in terms of attraction and want beyond that of their bond should be enough of a reason to put a stop to this right away. But, again, he doesn't.]

Berserker- [As the tips of his claws graze his skin, there's no repressing a shiver but he has to try and focus on something other than the warmth of his skin and those half-lidded eyes.] Cú Chulainn.

[ The same urge hits Berserker -- for him, it's more alien than anything. It's not something he's felt...ever. How strange, how very strange. That fact alone stops him from doing it, gives him pause in his motions. He freezes just due to the unfamiliarity of everything -- how bizarre it is to not be confident in his control of a situation.

Diarmuid's voice cuts through the odd haze in his mind, a different feeling than the uncontrolled instincts of a dragon. ]

Hm...? What is it, Diarmuid? [ A slight hesitation in his speech, his voice soft. ] Something bothering you?

[ As if he had to ask. ]

[Hearing his name like that nearly make him lose concentration all over again. In spite of everything, though, he still hasn't relinquished so much as an inch of contact. As he talks, he goes on stroking along the line of Berserker's jaw, thumb just brushing over his lips.]

Bothering is a strong word.

[There's a compromise to be found here. Rather than tilting his head up to bring his lips to his, Diarmuid instead glances down and takes hold of Berserker's hand..]

The wrong word entirely, really.

[And, with a natural, gentlemanly grace, he presses a light kiss to the back of it.]

[ He should have expected that, really, and yet it's a surprise. ]

Some things never change, do they?

[ Well, now there's no sense in holding anything back. Fortune favors the bold, after all. He runs his fingers along Diarmuid's jawline before leaning down to capture his lips in a kiss. The hesitation is gone, he knows what he wants, so he'll take it. It's insistent and needy, asking for more but not taking it. It's rare he's so forward in these types of situations, but this is different. Everything about this is different. ]

[His smile turns wistful, maybe even a little melancholy.]

No. Never.

[There's no time left for words. The tension breaks sooner than Diarmuid was ready for but he finds himself responding with an eagerness that he couldn't have anticipated anyway. Instinctively, he parts his lips, drawing him into a deeper kiss, all while hooking an arm around his neck to pull him closer. Every breath he takes, hitching slightly as he feels sharp teeth against his lips, presses his chest to Berserker's.

His pulse is racing.]

... this is a bad idea.

[It sort of loses its impact when he can barely bring himself to break away, leaving the words crushed in another kiss.]

[ It's an incredibly bad idea. A bad idea that's as legendary as the two men that are in on it. A bad idea for the ages. So be it. It's not the first bad idea either of them have had, nor will it be the last.

For once in his life, Berserker's heartbeat quickens. This is unfamiliar territory for him -- it's not like he hasn't done things like this before, it's just something he normally does because he feels he has to or it's easier than not. Much like anything else, it's usually a matter of convenience. A desire for anything is weird, weirder still when it's for something sexual or sensual.

He keeps Diarmuid close to him with an arm around his waist. The floodgates are open and he wants more. His free hand searches for a a way beneath his clothing, wanting to feel his skin. Despite his passion, he's mindful of his claws and isn't tearing at the clothes (you're welcome). His kisses are eager and rough; Berserker wants to feel more, explore more of his mouth and body. It's only after a rational thought comes into his head does he stop.

He presses his forehead against Diarmuid's, his voice barely above a whisper. ]

You don't want to stop, do you?

[ As intense as this is, he doesn't want to push the witch further than he's comfortable -- this is not a limit that needs to be tested. ]

No, I-

[He falters. What he wants?

The truth of it is that Diarmuid's wants have always been outweighed by what he has to do, what is demanded of him by honour or enchantment and fate has been kind enough to see that the two have aligned often. Yet, when he had shed the blood of his own brothers, when he had taken hold of Gráinne's hand at the wedding, when he had turned his spears on Saber- none of it was what he wanted. None of it. But that is what it is to be a knight; he is his master's spear hand and an extension of his will, and his faith in how he is used must be absolute. That is what is is to be caught in a geas. The concept of putting his own desires above that is abhorrent- alien, even.

While the reasons may be different, they're more alike, he and Berserker, than he knows.

They should stop. Diarmuid should bid him goodnight and leave. He does neither of this things; it's not what he wants. With a deep, heartfelt sigh, he settles into Berserker, burying his face in his neck as he speaks.]

... let me hold you. Just for a little while.

[Another kiss- and this one feels defiant.]

Edited 2019-07-03 10:38 (UTC)

[ Berserker knows that feeling too well. His own desires have been put aside for so long. Unlike the true version of Cú Chulainn who gave in to every want and desire, this one has locked those wants away. What he wants never mattered, it's what he has to do or needs to do. Everything was in the name of strength or furthering someone else's goal -- being used as the Mad King took its toll. He's told himself for so long that these things are foolish and unnecessary, but now something's changed. He actually wants something, an actual desire. It's not for someone else's sake, but for his own.

He can feel Diarmuid's determination in that kiss -- something changed for him, too, it seems. Good, this is what he wanted: for him to finally choose something for himself and not for the sake of someone else. ]

As you wish.

[ He kisses the other man once more before moving away. It's a reluctant move, but it might be more comfortable to do this elsewhere. The simple bed in the room is the obvious choice, though he briefly considers the floor because it's convenient. With no warning, he goes to lay down on the bed, looking back at Diarmuid. ]

I'm yours to do with as you please.

[ Berserker. That's a terrible way to say it. ]

[Berserker's choice of words prompts the slightest of frowns but Diarmuid's navigates them with the same deftness as he might a barrage of arrows. He won't do as he pleases- he'll do as they please.]

No more or less than I am yours.

[It's only once he's laid down that caveat that he follows him over to the bed, not to join him lying down but to sit beside him. There's no hesitation left in his movements and, as he reaches out to stroke his hair back, it holds the same intimacy as it might between two lovers. There's even something a little curious about the way he studies him, gold eyes intent and hands light as they play across Berserker's cheekbones and hair and, finally, his horns. The next kiss he gives isn't to his lips but to his forehead where skin gives way to the curve of whatever hard, dark material they're made from.

Such a strange new crown for the Mad King to bear.]

Of course.

[ An agreement because it only makes sense -- a partnership like this requires a mutual trust and respect.

The touches aren't at all what he was expecting, but he's not about to complain, either. Intimacy like this is what he craves, but will never ask for. It's too much for him to do so. He leans up into the kiss with a soft sound of surprise. Berserker looks up at Diarmuid, his expression neutral despite his racing heart. To let himself be this vulnerable is a rare occurrence, but he owes it to the Lancer to show this to him. There really are no walls between them anymore.

He stays prone on his back for now, taking a moment to let his hair down. With the dark blue strands spread out as they are, he looks even more wild. There's still hesitation in everything he does. This is extremely unfamiliar territory -- he's so used to letting people just take what they want from him and going along with it. He reaches up to caress Diarmuid's cheek, mindful of his claws as his fingers trail down his throat.

This is strange, but he doesn't mind it. ]

[By contrast, Diarmuid seems more certain than ever. His body language has relaxed, eyes softening as he gazes down at him and he even gives a little laugh at the other Servant's surprise. Every response is encouraging- and, for the first time, he's the one determined to reward Berserker.

He shifts further onto the bed and, carefully, eases one thigh beneath Berserker's head so that he's all but lying in his lap. It's harder to kiss him from this position but right now he's content to simply play with his newly loose hair, curling a long, dark lock around one finger. With his free hand, he unbuttons his own collar and tugs his tie free.]

... you're as handsome as the legends say.

[Who exactly made the joke about courting earlier?]

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fml sorry typos

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yall picked a disgusting romantic to bond with berserker