[If there's a "thank you" on his lips, it's stolen away by a weak groan as Berserker strokes him and he's forced to stop just for a moment to catch his breath. It's not easy; he sets a relentless pace, never letting up the movement of his hips even as Diarmuid drops against him, gasping. He could easily come like this, overstimulated and malleable in the afterglow- but he doesn't let himself. Somewhat reluctantly, he eases himself back upright and, using his broad shoulders for support, begins to ride him in earnest again.
Though he's beyond words by now, when he ducks his head again and nuzzles him, kisses the bases of his horns and his lips, he hopes the affection comes across anyway. So too does he hope he understands what he means when he places one of Berserker's hands firmly on his hips: faster or slower? Hard or gentle?
no subject
Though he's beyond words by now, when he ducks his head again and nuzzles him, kisses the bases of his horns and his lips, he hopes the affection comes across anyway. So too does he hope he understands what he means when he places one of Berserker's hands firmly on his hips: faster or slower? Hard or gentle?
"I'd give you anything right now, Cú. Just ask."]