lancer | diarmuid ua duibhne (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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middaeg2019-06-27 12:00 am
ua_duibhne) wrote in middaeg2019-06-27 12:00 am
Entry tags:
[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.]
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:
[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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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. ]
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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.]
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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. ]
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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.
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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. ]
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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.]
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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. ]
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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.]
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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. ]
fml sorry typos
[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.]
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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. ]
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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.]
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[ 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. ]
yall picked a disgusting romantic to bond with 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?]
gross
Berserker shifts a little bit so he is laying fully in his lap. Another unfamiliar position he wants to run from. There's no point in maintaining his distance with him any longer, but it's so hard to let someone in close like this. Unnatural, not uncomfortable. He draws his fingers down to Diarmuid's collarbones, slipping his hand beneath his shirt to feel more just for a moment. ]
... Are you sure you're not courting me?
[ A ghost of a smile as he drops his hand away from the Lancer. He wants to feel more skin and make more of himself available, opening up the buttons on his shirt. Clothing to fit this world is much more covering than he's accustomed to. Buttons undone, the shirt falls open. He's really underdressed, all things considered -- just a loose woven shirt and simple pants, not even a waistcoat. ]
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If you're not careful, I really might consider it.
[It's said largely in jest. He's no fool; with all the emotion and residual magic in the air, there's no telling how long the rosy haze of fondness for the man in his lap will last. Maybe they'll go back to how they were before once it dies down. Maybe they won't. All he knows is that, even if it's just for tonight, he wants to be selfish and indulge in every last drop of it. The feeling of being wanted is too much to relinquish so soon.
Which is why, as soon as Berserker's taken care of those buttons, he finds himself redirecting his attentions down across his throat and over the whorls of his collar-bone and exposed chest. Each touch is considered and light, more explorative than actively sensual. Fingertips trace tattoos, following each part of the stylized triskellion and then the curve of muscle beneath it.]
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[ But he can't deny his enjoyment of the situation. Well, as much as he's capable of enjoying anything, anyway. There's no want to push Diarmuid away or punish him for his boldness. Letting him do as he pleases is the right thing to do and not even because it's the easiest path.
Goosebumps form as his chest is touched, breath catching in his throat. Hard muscle tenses beneath his roaming fingers. It's not a sensual touch, but Berserker can't help the way his body reacts. Violence is a way of life, he can deal with pain easily, but dealing with anything more intimate is beyond him. Shifting and pressing up into the touch, he bites his lip to suppress a soft sound. The touch is doing more for Berserker than he lets on, but it's hard to deny that fact when it's visible. Like always, it's to be ignored as an annoyance.
He'll never ask for it, but he wants more -- for once, he doesn't hate having hands on his body. It's a weakness and a vulnerability to take this kind of pleasure at simple human contact, and yet he allows Diarmuid to do as he pleases. It's as much a reward for the other man as it is for him. A small indulgence he finally allows himself.
He could get used to this, a thought that bothers him but he doesn't voice it. ]
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[It must be catching because the longer he spends here, the more he wants from him. With every word and every featherlight breath, the edges of his self restraint fray a little further- but it's the way that Berserker bites his lip that tugs that last thread loose. The worst part is being fully aware that he's giving into it.
... another kiss will solve that, surely? Feed the fire just enough to keep it burning without causing a wildfire- at least, that's what he's telling himself. The bed creaks as he moves out from under Berserker and resettles beside him, half reclining with his head resting against the back of one hand.]
... don't worry. [There's really no other word for what he's doing but gazing.] I know I'd just be breaking my own heart.
[Fondly, Diarmuid brushes Berserker's hair back from his face and presses his mouth to his again. A small nip at his lower lip as he breaks away suggests more where he would fail in words; just as Berserker can't admit to wanting the contact, he can't admit to wanting to give it.]
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That kiss is the one that breaks the dam, overwhelming him with his long-buried desire. It's enough to set a fire in him and finally, finally give in to what he wants. Where words fail him, actions take their place. He turns to face the other man and returns the kiss eagerly. An arm snakes around him, pulling him closer, gripping at his back. He can't ask, but he can take. If Diarmuid stops him, so be it, but he'll take whatever he can get.
It feels good to give in. He feels something that isn't negative. It's so unfamiliar, but he doesn't hate it. It's something he actually wants, truly wants. How strange, how very, very strange. He doesn't stop to consider why this is so unfamiliar and weird, he just presses himself closer to the Lancer. No space between them, no barriers, just an unbridled desire Berserker can't deny any longer. ]
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There's little resistance in him, then, when he's pulled closer- at least, at first. Diarmuid allows him to take what he wants for a few moments, responding to his touch with a fervour equal to his and staying pliable in his arms as his claws rake across his back. It doesn't last. In one easy motion, he takes advantage of Berserker's distraction to turn him onto his back and straddle his hips. Before he can complain- hell, before he can so much as catch his breath- he leans forward and captures his mouth yet again.
Still-]
This isn't- [Fabric rustles as he pushes Berserker's shirt off of his shoulders, revealing the knotwork across his shoulders.] - I'm not normally so...
[They've come all this way but he still can't help himself.]
Please, don't think ill of me for being so forward.
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It's a deeply unfamiliar sensation to actually enjoy a battle, but this isn't what he's used to. There's an unexpected fulfillment in the give-and-take. He doesn't fight it when Diarmuid straddles him, laying back once again. Much more active than before, than ever, he puts his hands on him once again. There's too much clothing between them still, so he starts working at the closures on Diarmuid's shirt. It's hard to do any kind of delicate work with claws, but he's trying. Tearing it off feels like a better idea, but they still have to leave here -- that and he's pretty sure Diarmuid might be annoyed with him for doing that. At least he's being that considerate in the moment.
Black scales shine red across his shoulders as shirt is pushed down. How forward the Lancer is does surprise him and...
Ah, there it is. Berserker knows he has hang ups about intimacy of all sorts, but there's a time and a place for these sort of things. When you're already halfway into an act of passion on top of the other person is not that time. ]
Shut up.
[ It's not cruel at all, though he doesn't give Diarmuid a chance to respond to it. A hand moves to tangle in his hair as he leans up to kiss him. It's more teeth and tongue than anything, rough and bruising -- appropriate for someone like himself. ]
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But about their situation-
Shut up. Oh. Diarmuid blinks at him for a few moments, unsure whether to be contrite or affronted, and starts to say something- but that's about as far as he gets before he's lost in the crush of Berserker's body against his again. It's hard to be too indignant when he sinks so readily into his arms, really.
... but that doesn't mean he's going to let him get away with it. He's a knight and he has his pride, after all. Before he can be swept up in another carress, he edges back and out of Berserker's grasp so that his chin is resting on his chest. There's a strangely puckish glint in his eyes.]
Have I offended you? Then allow me put my lips to better use.
[Rather than tilting his head upwards, though, he slips further down Berserker's torso, assailing him with a barrage of frustratingly light kisses as he goes.
Maybe this isn't actually about pride.]
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He looks down at Diarmuid, noting that look in his eyes. Well, at least he's eager to please. Berserker shifts a bit underneath him to completely shed his shirt, tossing it aside. There's almost a whine at the feather light kisses on his skin. More, his mind screams at him, but it goes unvoiced. He lifts up just slightly into each delicate sensation, gripping at the sheet with one hand. ]
Surely you can do better than that. [ His voice strains to get out, tinged with lust. ] Can't you?
[ Through the desire-filled haze in his mind, he still remembers that best way to get the reaction he wants from Diarmuid.
Hopefully. ]
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As you say. [Another kiss. Considering his new battle wounds, the sheets are withstanding those claws admirably.] I would hate to disappoint you, Cú.
[For all his teasing, as much as he tries to disguise it with playfulness, it's the truth.
Even so, he doesn't, as Berserker might expect, move lower. Rather, Diarmuid draws himself back up and redirects his attentions altogether. His mouth first finds his collarbone, grazing sensitive skin, and then move downwards to the swell of muscle of his chest where he pauses- but only for a second. When he next parts his lips, it's to run his tongue just lightly across a nipple. It's really far too late to worry about letting things get out of hand; with a haze of neediness clouding his thoughts, he was going to end up in his arms one way or another so he may as well sink into them completely. Sex has never been about pure lust for him and yet here he is, acting with a boldness and unbecoming lack of discipline that will probably- no, definitely- embarrass him in the morning.
God. He wants to please him so badly.
It's fine. That seems like aeons away with how strangely time feels like it's moving.]
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This is also a way to satisfy personal curiosity. If he gives Diarmuid free reign to do as he wants, what will he do with it? Will he listen to Berserker's desires or just take what he wants? There's a part of him that already knows the answer (the Lancer is a little predictable in some ways, after all), though there's still enough of a mystery to keep him interested.
Berserker writhes beneath the attention given to him. It would be so easy to overpower Diarmuid, yet he continues to accept this treatment. It's overwhelming despite it not being that much. Is it because he rejected his own wants for so long that every touch, every kiss sets his senses on fire? He doesn't know the answer, he just wants more.
The sheets tear in his grip as he feels the teasing tongue graze his nipple. Oops. He hadn't noticed how hard he'd been gripping at them, too caught up in the sensations being given to him. ]
...More. [ Not quite desperate, but pleading. ] Give me everything you've got.
[ Why was he so desperate for this kind of affection? He couldn't understand it, but they're past the point of understanding anything. Analyzing this could come later. He lets go of the torn cloth in his hand to clutch at Diarmuid once again, trying not to claw his skin up anymore than he already has. Any semblance of self-control is gone and it's strange for him to just give in. ]
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tfw u want to smash but CHIVALRY
never change deermood
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