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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[ Of course his mind is still made up. He felt no need to reply to the message, as he'd agreed to this already. A matter of convenience and nothing more, he told himself. There's no one else he trusted with this task, that was all. Berserker knew he couldn't put it off any longer, so there was no point in delaying the inevitable. Since the full moon passed, the feral thoughts lessened, but who knew how long that would last? The next time he lost control, would he regain it like that? He rarely let thoughts like this bother him, but this was an exception -- control is something he will never let go of.

The transformation took its toll on him in other ways -- his head ached, his skin burned and itched, normally annoyances but without the resilience his Rune Magic afforded him, they became taxing. Sleeping more often, isolating himself more than normal. Something to ease this burden would be welcome. There are deeper implications to such a bond, but he has no interest in dwelling on them for now.

He approaches the entrance, spotting Diarmuid by that weak light. Berserker's a bit smaller than normal without his armor on, finally adopting clothing to help him blend in better. It's nothing fancy -- a dark shirt, unbuttoned vest, and dark pants -- but it is a change from the norm.

He breaks the silence as he approaches. ]

Have you been waiting long?

[Diarmuid's on his feet to meet him as soon as he spots him. Dressed like with, without that imposing ruff of crimson and shell of spikes, the difference in their heights suddenly appears minimal, marked by a difference in attitude rather than anything overtly physical. Even like this, he carries a subtle air of inapproachable menace.

Naturally, it doesn't put Diarmuid off any.]

No. Not really.

[He'd dropped by early anyway, mostly to talk things through with the witches on duty but also to visit the library. The book now tucked under his arm came at the recommendation of an archivist already bonded to a monster- though, looking at Berserker now, he should probably have skipped ahead to the chapters on horned beasts.]

Forgive my rudeness but you look tired. [Sorry, but it's true.] Where have you been staying? Have you been keeping well?

[No fear: that is absolutely not an invitation for him to stay with Diarmuid for a while: he has enough on his plate with a burgeoning turnskin scratching up the floorboards. But it does seem sensible to know more about what his living situation is like if they're going to need to maintain a bond.]

Or... is it more to do with the changes?

[ Berserker hadn't been sleeping much and more or less where ever he could. He's not too keen on admitting as much to Diarmuid, but there's also no sense him lying. He knows he looks like hell -- exhaustion takes its toll.

His lack of fear is unsurprising -- if the Lancer feared him or hesitated, he'd call this off immediately. No point in connecting with a weak link. ]

I have no stable place to stay. I've been sleeping on the edges of Archer's cottage. [ Honest, at least. He wants to remain isolated and is in no hurry to find stable housing. Survival is enough for him. ] The changes aren't helping, though. I'm unused to this weakness...

[ To show weakness meant death, even in front of an ally. Without strength, he had nothing, so he valued it above all else. ]

So let's get this over with already. [ He has his doubts whether or not this will actually alleviate the problem -- there's a nagging thought it will aggravate it. ] Maybe it will calm this storm.

[Archer? He knows him by association with Caster but that's all the background he needs to accept him as someone trustworthy- frankly, Diarmuid has more faith in his judgement than his own. Sleeping rough outside someone's house isn't exactly much better than being completely alone but it's something. Besides, he gets the impression that concern is neither wanted not welcome.]

Of course.

[With that, he snaps his fingers and the ball of light floating beside him disappears in a curl of smoke. But they're only left in darkness for a few moments before he opens the door and archway is flooded with the warm candlelight within.]

They know to expect us so it shouldn't take long. After you, my l- [It slips out before he can stop it. Damn it. Damn it, that's not what he meant to say at all but something about the gesture in combination with his deference triggered it and now he has to hurry to correct himself.] Berserker.

[Whether it goes unnoticed or not, he'll be keeping his head down until they actually find the witch in charge of holding the ceremony at one of the desks within.]

[ Archer is accidentally collecting dogs, really.

Diarmuid is right to withhold his concern -- his assessment is exactly correct. He doesn't want anyone's concern, though it was Archer's concern for him that led him to the arrangement they're in. It's convenience, he tells himself, and nothing more.

That slip doesn't go unnoticed and his eyes narrow for just a moment. ]

You can't break old habits so easily, it seems...

[ An idle observation. He doesn't want to be a king again, but if Diarmuid is content to play his knight, so be it. Berserker lets go of that thought, though, as the goal for the night is in sight. He maintains his indifferent silence as they approach the witch in charge. ]

[If nothing else, he has the self-awareness to be embarrassed. After all this time, he's still falling back on old habits, still trying to put his relationships with people into the most comfortable frameworks regardless of their accuracy. Time to move on.]

It's a work in progress.

[The resolve in his voice is mirrored in the way he strides towards the desk. Strangely, the other witch doesn't seem too surprised by how mismatched they are; Diarmuid's openess should be entirely at odds with the apathy that radiates off of Berserker but it goes without comment. But perhaps there's some sense in bonding with opposites if it could balance out a personality.

Knowing their luck, though, it'll just topple over completely.]

... there's the matter of vows. [There are so many he's given over the years- in arms, in marriage, in servitude- and only one of them broken.] I had something in mind for what I wanted to say but it doesn't matter if you don't. Do as you will- I trust your instincts. I... have only one request: I want to bond myself to Cú Chulainn, not Berserker. With our True Names.

[Is it too sensitive a demand? Diarmuid watches him with poorly concealed trepidation, eyes giving away what he's trying so hard to mask with his expression.]

[ It's not an unreasonable request whatsoever, it's one that makes sense. Their bond will not be as Servants in a Grail War, but heroes of legend. Berserker nods. ]

Of course. I want to be bonded not to Lancer, but to Diarmuid Ua Duibhne. As for the vows... [ No, he hadn't prepared for this, but it didn't matter too much. ] I will speak the truth. You can handle that much.

[ They wouldn't be kind, but they would be honest. He owed honesty to Diarmuid. ]

[Good answer. Diarmuid visibly brightens, flashing him the kind of radiant, warm smile that probably sent hearts fluttering without him even knowing it when he was alive. Even knowing that Berserker's truths often come laced with more painful observations, he welcomes it.]

That's all I could ask for. [In spite of himself, he reaches out and claps a hand to Berserker's arm, just for a moment.] Let's go.

[As expected, preparations don't take long; significant a ceremony as it is, the witches hosting it are skilled enough that they're guided into the room in short order and with an experienced hand. And yet the power in the circle they've put together is palpable even before Diarmuid steps through the doorway. If he had the magic circuits of the mages back home, they would be ablaze right now but, in their place, his new attunement to magic leaves him prickling all over. The steward's introductory line about the importance of Bonds washes over him completely in its wake and, as he talks, all he can wonder about is the strength of the spell that's going to bind them.

So, this is it.

The instructions, at least, are clear. Stand in the circle and join hands. Without a word, he extends a hand to Berserker, not for him to shake this time, but for him to hold.]

... ready?

[ He looks down as his arm is touched, but he doesn't react much more beyond that. Berserker's gotten used to people touching him without warning in this place, his normal aura not being enough to stop them. It's not as if he epected Diarmuid to be frightened by him either -- the lack of hesitation in his case was not a lack of respect.

Berserker maintains his silence as they're lead to the room. the signifigance of this ceremony doesn't go unnoticed, the slightest hint of trepidation filling hm. Like everything else, it's to be ignored. That feeling is pushed away as he grasps Diarmuid's hand in his own. He meets the Lancer's gold eyes with his own, an intensity shining within the deep red as he nods. ]

I am.

[Diarmuid's grip is firm, without any of the doubts he had before. The circle crackles beneath his feet, glowing with an arcane power that outshines even the multitude of candles set up around them as the magitech lamps are snuffed out. There are incantations, he's sure, but with raw energy bringing him out in goosebumps through even the sturdy soles of his boots, he doesn't hear them.

Besides, he keeps his eyes trained on Berserker the whole time. There's nothing searching about his stare, no intent behind it aside from a faint and strangely vulnerable need for connection. It's not something he expects to be returned.

And then come the vows. By this point, his heart feels like it's beating in time with the pulse of magic through the circle, perhaps even in time with Berserker's. Maybe it's all an illusion but the pure sychronocity of it all leaves him slightly breathless. It's nothing like being summoned at all. It's-

The overseer witch tilts her head. Right.]

... I've no need to ask for loyalty or honesty: you give the first where it is earned and the second freely. Neither do I ask for your companionship. But know that I offer all three to you alongside my spear. I trust you to take what you will of me without tarnishing my honour as a warrior and a man of oaths- and I can only hope that you have the same faith in me. [There's more he could say but it seems inappropriate in the face of a man of so few words- so he finishes strong instead.] Diarmuid Ua Duibhne swears himself to you once more, Cú Chulainn, not as a Servant or even a knight but as someone who can share the gifts and burdens of this world alike. An equal.

[ Berserker remains unmoved by the ceremony, eyes staying focused on Diarmuid with an unmatched intensity. All that matters here is the bond, the ceremony surrounding it is set dressing. He keeps a firm grip on the other man's hand, breathing steady. It's hard not to feel at least a little bit awed by how their bodies slowly start to fall in time with each other. Feeling his heart beat in time with the Lancer's makes him tense up for a moment, breath catching in his throat. Ah...He'd barely been paying attention to anything else.

Diarmuid's voice brings him back in reality. His expression remains apathetic as ever, but the words don't ring hollow. ]

I will take you as you are, I will call on you when I need you. Despite your weaknesses and shortcomings, you are reliable and for that, I will accept you. There is no one I trust more here than you to take on this role. I, Cú Chulainn, accept you, Diarmuid Ua Duibhne, as my equal. I will test your loyalty and your limits often, but my burdens are yours and yours are mind. My victories are yours and yours are mine. I will be at your side when you need me, and I know you will do the same for me. I ask for nothing and know you will give me more than that. I will do the same for you.

[ Kinder than he could have been, but there was no need to lay bare what Diarmuid already knew. He closes his eyes and bows his head slightly as a sign of respect. ]

[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. ]

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

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