If it is the bhaalspawn's dream to hear Enver Gortash pleading that he take him, conquer him, even just be with him as this storm of sensations buffets his senses, it might be something like edging to know how very close they are to that. If there were ever fleeting thoughts of ecstasy to be had with the son of the god of murder, amorphous as they had been, they are here now in some form, pulling at the already fraying threads of his control. And it almost escapes, his lips forming around an unquiet appeal for more.

But he doesn't lose pace; there is not enough coherent thought to loose on himself that might break that. Each descent brings with it another burst of rapture when that inner part of him is stricken, and whatever thoughts had begun to form in the second it took to reach here are stolen from him just as quickly. There isn't time to beg. There isn't time to worry whether he is being heard.

But somehow that voice penetrates just as deftly as that cock. He bites down on his lip as he feels himself nodding. "Yes..." he whimpers. He opens himself to both and embraces both, just as tight, just as needing.