13. dreams

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Daimd conceived of himself simply as Daimd, and everyone knew that. But in the secret recesses of his mind, farthest from his conscious everyday thoughts, lurked the sole title he would sometimes attribute to himself: Daimd the Dreamless Sleeper

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addendum.

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He sinks his teeth into the soft flesh of Daliquinn's neck and is rewarded with the coppery-sweet rush of blood into his mouth, the hitch of the elf's breath, and the pinch of nails digging into his spine. He arches and bites harder and growls the love-language of orcs, promising with a guttural noise to fuck him until neither of them can breathe, snarling lewd questions Quinn can't answer, rumbling needy demands steeped in hot lust.

It's Daliquinn who propels them forward; Daliquinn who pulls him down and whispers in a breathless voice far too composed for his passion, “What are you waiting for?”

And he pins the naked blood elf down with his hips, groping all his body with great orc hands eager to learn every inch of milk-white skin. He growls in response to the delighted laughter punctuated with moans and sharp gasps of pleasure; here, and here, and here, and he memorises the places that elicit the strangled fluttering breath of passion.

“Please.” He hears himself rumbling, voice deep and hoarse with desire, “Please.”

Daliquinn yanks him down by his hair, his laughter cruel but telling as he nips Daimd's ear and says, “Come then, my beast.”