Essek breathes. Ragged, without rhythm, but he breathes. Thoughts slip from his mind like water through cupped fingers, held only briefly before they drip away, leaving his head empty and his body full. This is fine; he doesn't want to think, he wants to fuck. But Percival remains still, seated to the root inside him, and his patient encouragement gives Essek the chance to process how he feels beyond overwhelmed.

He focuses on his husband's hand stroking soothingly over his skin, hip to flank to stomach. He hears what is being asked of him, though words are difficult to scrape together in the jumble of his brain. He nods, an antsy little bob of his head, to confirm that he understands.

Parsing the sensations vying for his attention is impossible; each feeds into another, an endless loop of reactions that leaves him dizzy and raw and craving focus. He needs Percival to move. It seems like the only thing that will give him perspective.

Tensing his thighs, lifting his hips, and arching his back to grind his ass against his alpha's hips is telling enough, he hopes. The motion itself sparks something in his crowded body, like plucking the thrumming strings of white-hot tension somewhere between his belly and his thighs. After a startled moan, he manages a single word in Undercommon, simple but effective. "Please."