[There's something utterly hypnotising about him like this. Arched back; skin gleaming with a light sheen of sweat; muscles moving in elegant synchronicity; wings flared; that sound. For a few moments, Diarmuid is overwhelmed by the intensity of his feelings. Gods, he's handsome and strong but it's the trust he has in him that takes his breath away almost as completely as his body does.
Whether or not he's even realised it, Diarmuid's grip on his hips has tightened enough that his claws bite into his skin deeper with each moment. He matches Berserker's pace with ease, his own unnatural lust overcoming his usual preference for something slower and gentler. It's with one particularly rough thrust that he moves back over his lover again so that he can turn his attention back to his wings. This time, though, short, sharp bites come littered amidst the kisses.
Mo ghrá thú.
He tries to say it, he really does, but his lips are otherwise occupied.]
no subject
Whether or not he's even realised it, Diarmuid's grip on his hips has tightened enough that his claws bite into his skin deeper with each moment. He matches Berserker's pace with ease, his own unnatural lust overcoming his usual preference for something slower and gentler. It's with one particularly rough thrust that he moves back over his lover again so that he can turn his attention back to his wings. This time, though, short, sharp bites come littered amidst the kisses.
Mo ghrá thú.
He tries to say it, he really does, but his lips are otherwise occupied.]