bunnys-archive

[bunnys-archive]

Loveit?

The psychiatrists claim you’re getting better- the only thing you’re getting better at is lying. All children are honest to a fault, and you were no different; spilling to every person you met about the strange creatures you saw in the corners of your vision, grotesque and monstrous hallucinations. Your “overactive imagination” was cute for one or two years, but that cuteness didn't stick. What was once charming and silly becomes frightening in your teens, and worth medicating when you’re an adult. You were prescribed a veritable cocktail of pills, the medication doesn’t do anything to help- no matter how much you’d like it to. If anyone wanted the slurry of chemicals and hormones to cure your disorganized brain, it was you. Taking purposeless pills seemed like a waste and the side effects were doing you no good, so at some point, you stopped- cold turkey -and nothing changed. A small part of you hoped your delusions would worsen, so hungry for a scrap of proof that you were capable of recovering, but the visions stayed exactly the same. When a remedy became little more than a pipedream, you turned to the next best option: lying.

With a thick smattering of concealer on your dark circles and a weak grin, you insisted to your therapist that the hallucinations had all but cleared up; then swiftly canceled any future appointments. You carefully trained yourself to stop reacting when you caught a monstrous creature following your coworkers, pretending you couldn’t see it twitching and muttering. If acting was your path to acceptance, to the normal life you’d always dreamed of, you’d perform your damn heart out.

To say playing at normality is easy would be another, bigger lie, but it was worth it. Living the life of your peers felt beyond amazing- it was euphoric. Dinner with friends after late nights, coffee dates on weekends, texting on lunch breaks; for the first time in your life, you were content. Part of you was still waiting for the other shoe to fall, but maybe, just for tonight, you could let those worries dissolve at the bottom of your glass. A couple of coworkers had decided to gather for drinks after their shift ended, you listened while they chatted, but never intended to insert yourself; being passed over for such events was so commonplace that it no longer stung you. To say you were pleasantly surprised to be invited was an understatement- the only word to describe your state of mind was ecstatic.

That spring showed in your every step down the sidewalk, your heels lifting off the ground with an ease you haven’t felt for years. Each movement feels feather-light, lead weights turning to sand beneath your shoes- you’re completely giddy. You find yourself twirling in the empty walkway, arms outstretched to absorb the streetlight like a spotlight; the world is your stage, and this is your standing ovation. There’s no audience to catch your childish moment of victory- your coworkers are a few too many minutes ahead of you -but you’re still caught up in a wave of embarrassment when you fling your keys out of your hands amid your celebratory performance. There’s a sharp jingle as they skid across the concrete and to the mouth of an alley several paces ahead, glinting beneath the golden light. You sheepishly shuffle over to retrieve your keys, freshly ashamed of your display from a few seconds ago.

As you’re knelt on the pavement, something timidly parts the silence. Slowly, you’re made aware of a presence, somewhere beyond the light of the streets, hidden from view by the veil of darkness. Your prickles with goosebumps, senses sharpened to a fine point.

“Is…” For a heartbeat, you consider shutting your mouth and turning tail, letting this odd event become little more than a droplet in your ocean's worth of strange occurrences. "...Is someone there?"

You're expecting silence- hoping for it, truly -but you’re met with a murmur instead. The words are garbled and quiet like someone was struggling to speak around the weight of their own tongue. “La… late..”

With apprehension weighing on your joints, you slowly return to your full height, fist closed tightly around your keys as you exit the safety of the street lamp.

“Do you need help?” The points of your keys are carefully tucked between each finger, your voice taking on a vulnerable tone you don’t prefer. “Should- should I call someone?”

The farther you pad into the alleyway, the darkness ahead of you gains a texture to it, the formless shadow of a figure slumped against the ground. You squint and strain to see the person ahead, only sound and vague flickering shadows alerting you to their movements as they drag themselves across the pavement a few arduous inches.

“You…” Their voice is no clearer now, even with only an arm's length separating you. The words are garbled and noisy; as if several voices were trying to speak with a single tongue. “You’re too… Late…!”

At last, your eyes adjust to the low lighting and the figure comes fully into focus. It might've been a person once, but those days were clearly over. What lay on the concrete before you could only be described as a monster, its head so swollen that it overshadowed the creature’s entire body, too heavy for the mangled neck to remain upright. You can hear its teeth scraping against the concrete with a grating shriek as it inches closer. The few hairs still attached to its head are thin and oily, sticking to its pimple-coated scalp. Its flesh is a blotchy, maroon-violet, as though the entire body was one continuous bruise, and the thing groans in agony to confirm that assumption.

“Oh- oh my God-” Where your adrenaline should be urging you to flee, it only makes your sneakers feel heavier than the concrete you stand on. It's the same instinct that makes children stare at roadkill, the same thing that leaves you unable to move and unable to look away. Your body won’t let you blink; the longer you stare, the more you see, and the worse you feel.

Further along the alley, there's a woman- you're guessing, from the pencil skirt that she no longer fits into -so bloated she resembles a corpse dragged up onto the beach, with the cloudy eyes of a dead fish to match. Indigo veins spiderweb across the pallid skin where her swollen throat strains against the lanyard that once hung loosely around her neck; a lanyard you recognize. The collection of familiar cat pins makes it clear to you who this woman used to be: your coworker, Honami. You look again, prying into the darkness, an awful sense of dread crawling under your skin as you do. At the dead end, there’s a figure with limbs so long and skinny they more closely resembled toothpicks; the creature’s legs had snapped straight in half at the shin, rendering the victim unable to move, trapped in a permanent state of being folded over. His face is obscured, but you recognize your manager Tatsuya by the shoes you've spent so much time staring down at.

“You're… late…!” A moist, clammy hand paws at your pant leg, dragging your attention back to the nearest creature. Though you assume this was another of your coworkers, your slow trickle of guilt grows into a torrent of shame when you realize you can't even place a name on this one anymore. “Too late…! You're late! You're late! La...te!”

Those words ring in your ears, joining the cacophony of static filling your brain. You'd seen atrocities like this before- some worse -but never before had they been so real, so tangible. Your visions had never reached out their shaking hands and touched you. They had never been people, either*,* let alone people you know- or knew. Yet, despite the unadulterated terror and disgust coursing through your veins, there’s a twinge of familiar resignation; of course, this happened. Your joy had gone untainted for far too long.

Indistinct noise behind you begins to fade in; a voice, clearer and stronger than anyone in front of you. The words only become clear when he’s come close enough for you to feel the breath grazing the back of your neck, raising goosebumps everywhere the air touches.

“Hey,” his voice buzzes against your ear, high and plaintive. An insect, a petulant child, something that wants your attention desperately and will have it. “Hey, can you even hear me?”

Hands. One on your waist, the other on your shoulder- you’re absolutely appalled to have someone touching you in this instant -can he not see what’s right in front of you both? Or does he just not care? The tunnel vision you're experiencing is so complete it's made you as good as blind, but the adrenaline rushing through your veins picks up the slack for your sight. The stranger stands too close, the body heat between the two of you should be enough to make you sweaty, but everywhere his touch lands becomes colder than stone. Worse yet, he smells foul; like wet, rotten leaves in autumn; or roadkill that’s been baking in the sun for hours; or mildewed clothing that’s been hiding in the basement; you can’t seem to find a single thing it quite reminds you of, other than death.

All at once, the arm around your waist seems to break itself a thousand times over, weaving around your torso so the palm comes out just below your chin. Frigid fingers grasp your face and turn your head, forcing you to meet the eyes of your captor. Just viewing the figure drowns you in a reflexive sense of dread, as though all of nature had never intended for the human eye to rest upon such a horrible thing. You’re thankful for the shadows in the alley, granting you respite from seeing him in any finer detail; like this, all you can make out is the glint of amber streetlights against small and silver dashes buried in his flesh. Your rational mind wants to say those are only piercings, but instincts insist otherwise.

“Ah! You can see me! Good, good.” The voice isn’t at all what you’re expecting- snarling, furious, or cruel. Instead, he only sounds lightly entertained, pleased that he has your attention now. Somehow, that’s so much worse. The strange man tilts your head back and forth, like you’re nothing but a ragdoll to him; he's a rabid dog and you're a toy to shake around as he pleases. "It’s rude to ignore people, you know.”

Five long seconds of silence feel closer to hours of you trying to will a single action from your body. You should scream or cry, try to run or fight, or do anything but stand frozen and take this without so much as a squeak. Something wet laps at your ankle and you refuse to look- you can't bear seeing it again -but at least the sensation shocks a few syllables out of you.

“Did you…?” The words burn away on your tongue as acid builds in your throat, threatening to leap past your teeth if you keep your lips parted for even a moment longer. You don’t have any rational reasoning behind asking if he did this. He couldn’t have, no one could have, you're just having another episode. The words from decades' worth of doctors seep into your mind, struggling to persuade you that this couldn't possibly be reality. Maybe, if you convince yourself this night is all another delusion produced by your sick mind, the nightmare won't be real when you wake up tomorrow.

He glances past you towards the portraits of suffering down the alley, ones he’d painted by hand, like he had forgotten they were still there. “Hm? Why? Were they your friends?”

Only an hour ago, you would’ve answered no; now, with death looming over your shoulder and a corpse at your feet, a tidal wave of grief washes over you. Your entire face crumples as you attempt to hold back tears- you will not cry, not here, not now, not like this.

As the man leans closer to press his forehead against yours, a thick curtain of silvery hair envelopes either side of your vision. The outside world disappears and in this hell, there is only you and the monsters you run from.

“Aw, don’t worry.” A smile spreads across his face like the plague, and the longer you're forced to see it, the closer you get to vomiting. His arms slither around your body like snakes, constricting you into an embrace as comforting as a straitjacket. “You can call me Mahito, and we’re gonna be best friends.”

When you can’t hold back and finally throw up in that damp, desolate alleyway, Mahito only laughs.

[bunnys-archive]

The Little Death

You had your suspicions drinking tea from an Erlenmeyer flask, fearing there may be trace amounts of whatever foul chemicals it last contained, but the Undertaker was quite insistent that the funeral parlor had no other vessels with which to drink tea. You should've trusted your instincts.

It had tasted just fine. Not unlike any other cup of Darjeeling you've drunk, but only a few sips in, and his rasping, pitchy voice bleeds into the generalized hum of the air surrounding you. The entire parlor is murmuring and Undertaker has joined the chorus, his voice almost inseparable from the buzzing background. He's telling a story- something about one of the Jack the Ripper victims, you think.

You had no involvement, only knowing of the case from the paper- which you had stopped reading after a particularly gruesome description -but there he goes, describing in lurid detail exactly how the poor woman had been carved up like cattle. He's practically waxing poetic on the fun he had stitching her waxy white skin back together, shoving her remaining organs back into place, and tucking filler into the empty cavities the Ripper had left behind, as though stuffing a sagging stuffed animal until the vacant body was plump and full once more.

The pictures he paints in your mind are ones you can never erase, but you can barely form a clear image anyway. Under any other circumstances, you would be sick to your stomach, moving to leave the funeral parlor and never return, but under the mist of whatever was in your tea, you can't find it in you to move. You can't even find the strength to speak.

Your lips stay parted, jaw hanging open and tongue limp in your mouth. In turn, you watch the Undertaker's lips instead, pale and dry as they move with each word, trying to parse whatever he was saying from the movement of his mouth. You can't hear the Undertaker's voice over your own breaths, slow and labored, and your heartbeat pulsing in your ears. With every second, the world gets fuzzier and fuzzier. The already dark funeral parlor became a sightless void, with the Undertaker becoming a star in the center of your dark universe, his silvery hair almost glowing in the dim candlelight.

With nothing else to reach for, you're leaning towards the Undertaker, a moth drawn to a flame. He's kind enough to catch you, a hand on either shoulder to steady you. Though his skin is no warmer than marble, you feel deeply comforted in his embrace.

"Oh my..." You don't know what he says after that. You only know that it feels so nice when he eases you into a more comfortable position, slumped against a coffin behind you, speaking in a low, soft voice. The sounds don't make sense, but they thrum sweetly against your brain as they enter your ears.

A moment later, the muscles in your next give way, unable to hold your head upright. Instead, you entrust this task to the Undertaker and he gladly accepts, cupping your face in his spare hand. Your cheek rests perfectly in his palm, those long black nails scratching lightly against your skin; he's cold, but your skin is beginning to feel so hot that you can't bring yourself to care.

A feverish delirium has begun to swallow you whole, with no sign of releasing you any time soon. The energy sweats out of your body with every second, leaving you as still and limp as a mannequin, but warmer than a summer day.

Your brain is boiling within your skull, and it shows on your face. A thin strand of spit oozes from your lips and down your cheek, onto the Undertaker's fingers. Your hand twitches, but you don't have nearly enough strength to lift your arm and clean yourself up. How kind the Undertaker must be to lean close to you- close enough you can feel his frosty breath -and drag his tongue over your skin, tenderly tidying you up.

He traces the trail of saliva back up your cheek, finishing the intimate gesture by flicking his tongue across your lips. You're somewhat grateful he went to the effort, but it hardly matters when he makes a mess of you all over again, only moments later.

The hand on your cheek readjusts to your chin, gripping just tightly enough that the Undertaker can tilt your head this way and that to get the desired angle as he slides his tongue into your mouth and halfway down your throat. The taste of antiseptic and salt coats your mouth, but there's little you can do other than summon forth a quiet whimper. The movements are awkward and messy; the Undertaker eagerly runs his tongue over every crevice and tooth in your mouth, as if attempting to form a perfect map within his memory, while you lay unresponsive to his affections.

Whatever you and the Undertaker are doing together can hardly be called a kiss, but he probably prefers you this way. Still, weak, easy to manipulate; as perfect as a doll, as human as a body.

He pulls away and you're breathless, lips glossy with a sheen of his spit. "Look at you now, so still... What a good boy."

The praise barely penetrates the thick fog filling your skull, but when it does, you make a pitiful attempt at a smile back, barely able to even twitch your lips. You're rewarded with the Undertaker's abrasive laughter, startling a groan from you. "Und...er..."

"Shhh, shh..." His lips keep moving, but you don't pick up on a single word, whatever the Undertaker is saying must be nice, right? You feel so calm, entirely weightless as if you're floating.

Then the sensation stops, and instead, you're being pressed in upon at every side by something soft, a fabric... maybe velvet? The experience rides the line between claustrophobic and comforting, as if you're bound in a straitjacket made of velvet; warm and tight. So warm. Too warm. You want- no you need out, if you stay as you are, you'll surely cook to death. The heat is torturous when you can't even make a move to relieve it, forced to moan out to the Undertaker for help.

Hands dart across your body as he mutters something sugary into your ear, deftly undoing buttons and clasps on his way down. At long last, your skin meets the open air of the funeral parlor, bringing a sigh to your lips at the refreshing feeling. So caught up your relief, you hardly even notice the cold fingerprints littering your body; poking and prodding here and there, adjusting your posture to his liking.

Legs straightened ahead of you, back flat against the surface beneath you, arms folded neatly. Great care is taken to interlace your fingers with each other, before he places your hands just below your navel, giving you a small pat on the tummy before his hands drift lower.

It's in this moment that it occurs to you where you must be laid and how you must look; in a funeral parlor, there's no place to rest but a coffin, and in a coffin, there's no way to look but dead.

The Undertaker plays with your lax body like a doll, rubbing his fingers across your lips for a few moments before he pauses and holds his thumb up against your lips, reveling in your shallow breaths for a few heartbeats. Although your ears feel stuffed with cotton, you can easily pick out the pleased groan the Undertaker makes.

Further down your body, a shiver crawls up from where the Undertaker's hand is tucked between your thighs. Whether the goosebumps pimpling your skin are from pleasure or temperature you can't tell. Something your mind tries to claw from the darkness, warn you how wrong this all is, but you can't hear it over the slick noise of the Undertaker dragging a finger through your slit.

You should be scared, you should struggle away or cry for help, but the adrenaline never comes; the fighting spirit you need is eagerly leaking away from between your legs and wetting the funeral director's hand. The silence that once fell between the two of you is replaced with a constant squelching of the Undertaker's fingers working over your clit; drawing slow, firm circles around the nub and simply enjoying the feeling of your breath against his hand as if it were an equal pleasure.

That calloused finger keeps rubbing at your clit, the rough skin pulling meager grunts from your lips with greater frequency the faster he moves. There's a twist in your stomach, something that makes you desperate to thrash in place, burning with frustration at your own limp body.

"Uh-" The hand on your lips quickly slaps entirely over your nose and mouth, clamping tight enough to cut off anything you planned to say. Those knife-like nails dig into your soft skin, threatening to cut.

"Hush. Don't speak." There are a few more words after that, still in a harsh whisper, that are inaudible to you.

Quiet panting, soft groans, slick fingers; the sounds and sensations are all too much, sending a vibrant buzzing through your veins, so strong it threatens to burst from your skin. Faster, rougher, harder; more, more, more-

The Undertaker mercilessly grinds the sharp end of his fingernail against your clit, and your body gives way to him completely. With just that simple demonstration of pain, the Undertaker rips an orgasm from your body as easily as a heart from a chest.

Acid pours through your veins, burning every vessel within you and filling your eyes with white-hot stars. Your eyelids twitch and your steamy breaths heave between the Undertaker's fingers as you lose any former semblance of control. The sleeve of the Undertaker's robe is soaked with your release. You'd be embarrassed with yourself if you could form coherent thoughts, but you can't even form a proper moan, just a pitiful gasp that seeps from your throat like a dying breath.

When the Undertaker finally pulls his hand away from your face, his hands are trembling just as much as your thighs. Briefly, you wonder if he enjoyed this as much as you did- or more.

[bunnys-archive]

Pantalone NSFW Alphabet

A = Aftercare (What they’re like after sex)

Perfect. Really! While the richest harbinger, Pantalone does not strike me as the lazy type. He’s not going to pawn off the aftercare on any staff, he’d rather do it himself. Pantalone goes through the same steps every time; he quickly cleans himself up, then gently wipes up the majority of your… fluids. He’ll run you both a nice bath- and you KNOW the Regrator has a giant, beautiful bathtub. Of course, Pantalone will clean you up with the highest quality soap, and when you’re done, he’ll moisturize you from head to toe! No need to stay awake, Pantalone doesn’t mind if you doze off. While he’s mostly hands on, he’ll have staff swap out the messy sheets before he lays you down to rest. Most likely, he’ll hold you close while you fall asleep and he reads.

B = Body part (Their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Your skin overall, which yeah, I know sounds weird, but walk with me. He loves your soft, smooth skin that’s perfect for bruising, kissing, biting; so pretty and delicate. Even in nonsexual moments, Pantalone likes to run his fingers over your skin and trace patterns, just for funsies. Like most of his things, he’ll do his best to make you take care of your beautiful skin. Also lips, beautiful, soft, pink lips just get him hard immediately; wear lip gloss and he’ll fall apart.

It’s not hard to see that Pantalone takes incredible care of his hair. He spends an immeasurable amount of time fussing over it, with a detailed washing schedule and care instructions. He spends much of his morning routine brushing, and styling his hair; if you feel like playing with it or styling it, feel free- but NEVER pull on his hair. EVER.

C = Cum (Anything to do with cum basically… I’m a disgusting person)

Pantalone takes impeccable care of himself, he’s well hydrated and keeps a good diet, so his cum is a clear, almost pearly color. It’s textured a lot like syrup and has almost no taste except for a faint saltiness- you’re not really sure how he makes his cum that flavorless. Pantalone doesn’t cum very much, it’s a bit disappointing but I’ll let you in on a little secret; if you squeeze his balls a lil bit you can make him squirt, and if you feel like putting in the effort, keep milking his cock after he starts cumming and he’ll cum even more. Please draw out his orgasm!!! Pantalone prefers cumming in your mouth, on your face or on your tummy- he’s not fond of trying to scoop his cum out of you later, too messy. Besides, don’t you just look beautiful with his cum on your face? Of course you do.

D = Dirty Secret (Pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

He wants to try butt stuff. Huh? No no, not on you. (:

Okay fine I'll elaborate. I don't think he's experimented with anal on his own, he simply has a curiosity that he wants to sate. After sometime, Pantalone might bring up the subject, as casually as one might talk about the weather over morning tea. He actually wants to start rather vanilla with this, a bit of fingering, some gentler sex. After getting a small taste for subbing, he might let you do a few other things to him (cough cough sounding)

E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

Fairly? I don’t think he’s all that experienced when it comes to sustained relationships, he's very busy and not opposed to hiring sex workers! Everyone has needs, and he is happy to pay for services he deems necessary, as long as he’s satisfied with the result. In short; intimate experience? No. Casual experience? Yes.

F = Favorite Position (This goes without saying)

Pantalone is usually fucking on the go (read: in his office), so he usually goes for the classic bending over desk. If he’s in the office, he’ll press your chest down the desktop and take you from behind, usually with his fingers in your mouth to pull you back and hold your jaw open. For a long while, he'll probably do this in the bedroom for a while too, bending you over the edge of the bed instead; but once he gets more accustomed to intimacy, I think he'll switch to missionary. Call it vanilla, but he likes being able to see your face, your expressions really heighten the experience for him.

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc)

I wouldn't call it humorous, so much as mocking. He's not laughing with you, he's laughing at you. Pantalone likes humiliating you in little ways, squishing your tear-stained cheeks together and calling you a crybaby, then laughing at you. If you try to tease him back however, he'll brush it off and somehow turn it back onto you. He's mean? Awww, but you like it don't you? Mean perv.

H = Hair (How well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.)

Pantalone strikes me as the sort of man who just. Full body waxes. Not hair to be found on this man. Which is a damn shame cus he's got some of the most beautiful hair I've ever seen, so silky and soft… no he won't stop waxing even if you beg. Sorry sports fans, your hairy man is in another castle.

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect…)

When Pantalone was younger, (shallow) people weren’t exactly interested in him, now he’s just too busy with work to bother forming a relationship with others, so he's used to transactional sex. He's probably going to remain rather distant for a while; you will have to have a conversation about it for sure. Pantalone will take your criticism into consideration very easily, he wants you both to enjoy your time after all, then change his behavior for you. It's going to be an awkward change at first, and he'll engage in a lot of pillow talk to go over what was good and what needs improvement, but Pantalone will be nothing but agreeable.

J = Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon)

Why would he attempt to satisfy himself with his hands when he could just pay for an escort? Truly, Pantalone doesn't see the need and doesn't get horny enough to crank the ol' hog. But I am nothing if not a kind God! So I'll write this for you anyway.

Unlike with sex, Pantalone will not want to mastrubate in his office, it's too vulnerable and he finds it a bit embarrassing. He is definitely the type of guy to take it slowly, slow strokes over his shaft and rubbing his thumb over his tip, then a good squeeze around the base. Pantalone stays quiet most of the time, just barely panting as he touches himself.

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks)

Humiliation: Pantalone loves to feel superior, full stop. As long as you give consent, Pantalone likes to keep you naked in his office, sitting on his desk or the floor like an ornament. His favorite thing to do is keep you bound in a corner, stuffed full of toys for anyone to see, but only him to touch.

Financial domination: He likes being the one with all the money in the relationship. A little part of himself thinks you'll only like him as long as he's rich, so flaunting his wealth to you is a turn on. It's also relieving to him that you're dependent, so that way, you can never leave. Pantalone loves most to dress you up in fineries, then tear it all off in the heat of the moment, just to prove how little those things mean to him.

Mild pet play: dragging you around on a leash is one of Pantalone's greatest pleasures. He likes feeling as if he owns you, calling you pet, giving you orders. Pantalone is definitely the type to buy you a very fancy collar with real jewels on it, then use it as a handle while you fuck. If he's going to have any pet, it'll be a puppy, he's interested in the absolute obedience dogs have.

Submission: Pantalone does not put up with brats, hands down. He desires complete and utter obedience from you in the bedroom, you can either comply or miss out on your dick appointment. Brat taming? In this economy?

Handcuffs: While I don't feel Pantalone likes full body bondage (he likes to feel you struggle against him), he appreciates handcuffs or general hand bondage. It's a good way to yank you around and make sure you don't pull his hair out. His personal favorite is to bind your hands, then make you sit on his lap with your arms around his neck.

Spit: I can't say I have strong reasoning for this, it's just a gut feeling. It's something about spitting in your mouth and making you swallow it that makes the possessive part of him flare up.

Objectification: I mean really, is anyone surprised? This man fully believes he can buy anything, including you. He owns you, and he's not going to act otherwise. Sometimes, if he's had a stressful night, he'll just lube you up and fuck you like a fleshlight, and he's not afraid call you such things either. "Pet", "toy", and "doll" are some of his favorite things to call you.

Orgasm denial/Edging (they go hand in hand for this man): This follows closely with his objectification kink- oh you wanna cum? No, no, no, pet. Fleshlights don't need to cum do they? Ah- they don't talk, either. Watching you squirm and cry for him strokes his ego greatly, and he's not afraid to make you beg.

Dacryphilia: You look. So pretty. When you cry. Your lips trembling, your eyes glittering with tears, eyes and nose reddened, cheeks wet- and at his hand? Even better. Of course, Pantalone cares too much about you to enjoy when you're simply miserable, but when he edges you to tears? Nothing better.

L = Location (Favorite places to do the do)

Pantalone is a rather private man, he'll want to stick to his two safe spaces; your bedroom and his office. Of course, the bedroom is your house, but he claims that no one can argue with what he does in the privacy of his own office, especially if someone forgets to knock- not like he'd stop either way. Public bathrooms or secluded alleys are beneath him, while fucking on couches or in showers is just too much of a hassle.

M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)

What Pantalone REALLY wants out of this, is to feel like he owns you. He wants to know that you belong to him, that you are dependent upon him, and that he controls you; it's almost a comfort to him. If Pantalone holds all the control between the two of you, then it is utterly up to him whether you stay or go.

However, Pantalone will spend every waking moment reminding you why you should stay, and this applies to the bedroom as well. He wants to hear you cry out, feel you squirm, watch you cry; a reminder that he is the best man you will ever have.

N = NO (Something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Piss. I wouldn't call this particularly controversial, only a bit disappointing for the little pee-pee boys in the crowd (it's me I'm pee-pee boys). He doesn't like much of any kink that creates smell and a mess, it's just too much of a hassle to clean up and isn't worth it to him.

O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc)

For such a greedy man, Pantalone is a giver!!!! He doesn't care for receiving oral- it's fine -but why would he waste his time on fucking your mouth when he can be inside you? He much prefers the reactions he gets from eating you out or sucking you off. Considering this a bonus to the favorite position category, but when giving oral Pantalone has two favorite positions; letting you lay back and grabbing your hips to lift you to his mouth, or placing you on his lap upside down so your knees rest on his shoulders.

P = Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.)

Pantalone keeps his pace moderate, focusing on making his thrusts deep and hard instead. He'll grab your waist and roll his hips against yours, aiming for all your sensitive spots with long, deep strokes. Of course, Pantalone's pace becomes a bit erratic when he's closer to cumming, speeding up then slowing to crawl- you know he's really at the edge when he starts pounding you as hard and fast as you can.

Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.)

No. Sorry guys. Pantalone wants to take his time with you and isn't going to settle for an ultimately dissatisfying quickie, he won't apologize either. Good things come to those who wait, don't they?

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.)

If you wanna try something new, Pantalone is happy to agree, most times he won't say no; though he might show hesitation if you ask him to harm you. You'll have to tell him in advance so he can properly research the kink and how to enact the fantasy safely, and even before you have sex he'll probably warn you that he's going to try something new.

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last…)

My guy is a one and done kind of man, squirt then skirt if you will. So yeah, unfortunately you're only getting a single round out of Pantalone, but that round can last about as long as you like- and perhaps longer. A session with Pantalone can last from one hour up to three, and he won't let himself cum once until you cum at least twice, so there are no worries of being left unsatisfied.

T = Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)

Yes! Absolutely! Nipple clamps, a couple bullet vibrators, a wand vibrator, vary sizes of plugs, beads and dildos, an O-ring gag, spreader bars- though he only uses those last two if you're being shy with him. For afab partners he also owns a rosebud vibrator, and for the amabs he owns sounding rods and cock rings. Mostly the toys are for you, but with a bit of encouragement you might be able to coax him into using a few on himself. After a fair bit of experimentation, Pantalone finds himself in favor of wearing a cock ring and nipple clamps while fucking you… you might get him to warm up to a bit of sounding.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

If Pantalone isn't a tease, then I don't know who is. He takes great pleasure in riling you up, then denying you sex entirely, not even allowing you to touch yourself; a test of your obedience. God forbid you break his rules and get caught using any toys on yourself- and you will get caught -Pantalone will spend hours punishing you for disobedience. You'll find yourself handcuffed and stuck in spreader bars, the largest dildo of Pantalone's collection stuffed into your hole. Your lover shows no kindness, grabbing the base of the toy and ramming it in and out as fast and hard as he can, but stopping right before you cum and waiting however long it takes for you to calm down. This will go on for hours until you're sobbing, begging for forgiveness and wailing your apologies. So yeah. Pantalone is far from fair.

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make)

A few whimpers, mostly panting, maybe grunt here or there; While Pantalone may not be much of a moaner, he certainly is a chatterbox! He'll go on and on with you, muttering praise and degradation, fully expecting a response from you (how unrealistic, sir). He gets even worse when he gets closer to his orgasm; Pantalone's words break up with moans and become less coherent, but he still forces them out as fast as he possibly can, until he's stuttering forward a slew of curses at a near shout. Cutie <3

W = Wild Card (Get a random headcanon for the character of your choice)

The male boob lovers in the crowd are going to like this one- I believe with my entire heart that my double D malewife has sensitive nipples, his left one pierced. They're naturally puffy and pink, and they turn all red and swollen when you play with them. Unfortunately, Pantalone isn't going to give you much of a chance to toy with his chest, so when do you get boob time? One of the few times he subs, that's when. He's not going to argue if you pinch and pull on his nipples in the middle of easing your way inside of him, Pantalone is going to whimper. Enjoy this power, and use it wisely.

X = X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants, picture or words)

This man is vice president of the pretty penis club (I'll elaborate on the prez in a later post). He sits around 5.7-ish flaccid and an easy 6 when he's hard, a skinny penis haver but it's okay because I love him. He only really has one prominent vein that trails from the underside of his shaft then wraps around to the front side, just beneath his tip. Speaking of his tip!! It's a beautiful shade of pink that reddens when he gets hard, and drips soooo much pre. He's got a slight upward curve and when he's very hard, his dick nearly touches his abdomen.

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

Pantalone has a relatively low sex drive, really only feeling the need for sex every two to three weeks, however! He has no problem going at it more often if you so desire, if anything he likes how dependent upon him you are, please, ask for more.

Z = ZZZ (… how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Sleep?? After sex??? Pantalone could never. If anything, a good session clears his head and calms him down. He's more than likely to grab a lapdesk and do some paperwork while you're dozing off, but if it's really late or you went for a particularly long round he might just read at your side or even talk you to sleep.

[bunnys-archive]

Whiskey, Neat

Boothill is a thorn in your side. No, no; you find yourself thinking that comparison is too tame. To you, Boothill is a girdle made of barbed wire. You thought it impossible to hate a man at such a depth until you met the outlaw. He always smelled like hot pennies and diesel, never paid his tab, and harassed the rest of the bar staff to such a degree that none of them would serve him. Except you.

For the first few months of your “relationship”, you were only acquainted with Boothill from the countless times you had to drag him away from the bar top and throw him out the front door. Shortly after that, your boss said you should learn a thing or two about bartending for “no good reason”. You were starting to catch on. Soon enough your position as security faded away and was replaced with “the guy who dealt with Boothill”. You can't complain, the pay is better and you have the eternal gratitude of your coworkers.

In a matter of mere seconds, the front doors swing open, and three deafening gunshots shatter the eardrums of everyone in the bar.

“Alright, everyone out.” Just like that, you watch all the good tips run right out the door, along with the rest of the wait staff. Now left in an empty bar, Boothill throws his arms wide, gun still held tight in his metal fingers. “I'm back, baby! You miss me?”

The revolver takes a seat at the bar top before Boothill does, slammed down hard against the wood, its barrel pointed right at you. You're not worried, Boothill doesn't shoot on accident.

“Like a hole in the head.” You quit cleaning a glass and glance at the new bullet holes placed just above the door. “Or the ceiling… order your drink and get the fuck outta here already, Boots. You're killing business.”

“Keep mouthin’ off and I'll be killin’ more than business, sweetheart.” As if to prove his point, the freak of nature spits a few bullets onto the bar top and starts reloading his gun.

You can't help but roll your eyes at Boothill’s threats. The man offers to shoot you every other breath, but he'll never do it- if he was going to kill you, you'd already be dead. You're the only man still alive who talks to Boothill like that. Probably because you're the only man alive who’ll still serve him a drink. “You're not gonna kill me, Boots. Piss off any more bartenders and you're gonna have to get your fix from the hand sanitizer in public bathrooms.”

A deep scowl takes over Boothill’s face. “You're just askin’ for me to hop this counter and kiss you right on that pretty mouth of yours.” He stops then, equal parts embarrassed and furious as a hand comes to grasp at his own throat, surely cursing his internal censor system.

“Wow, sexual harassment, that's a new low, even for a hunk of junk like you.” You snort and a short glass finds its way into your hands. You're already pulling the strongest whiskey you have from beneath the counter, knowing Boothill will ask for it any second.

As if intentionally subverting your expectations, the outlaw kicks his feet up on the bar with an amused chuckle and a smug smile that makes you want to punch his teeth right out of his face.

“You just call me a hunk?” Six words in and you're already exasperated beyond belief. He's leaving crusty speckles on your clean bar. “Darlin’, if you wanted to take me out so bad, you coulda’ just asked.”

You elbow Boothill right in the ankles; it brings a mild ache to your arm as bone meets unrelenting metal, but the pain is worth it to watch the self-satisfied prick lose his grin and nearly fall out of his chair. “I’d rather drink a pint of sand and chew the glass it came in, take your drink and get outta here.”

The glass slides across the bar just a touch too fast, the liquid fire inside threatening to slosh over the sides; if Boothill's hand hadn't shot out to catch the glass, it surely would've sailed right off the bar and shattered on the floor.

“Come on now sweet thing, don't act like you hate me.” He recuperates much too fast, already leaning on his palm. There's a horrible, discordant shrieking emitted by the friction of metal against glass; Boothill running his fingertip around the rim of the glass. “Can't deny we’ve got some kinda chemistry.”

“Oh, it ain't acting, trust.” You snort at Boothill’s shot at… Well, you're not sure; could this be called flirting? If so, it's a laughable attempt. “We've got chemistry like bleach and ammonia.”

You know he's got some smart-mouthed response when Boothill bares his pointed teeth in a massive grin. “Could say we'd be… breathtakin’?”

It's horrible. That joke is worse than any sugar-coated insult Boothill could toss your way. One hand shoots out to grasp Boothill’s glass, the other going to grip his chin.

“Agh- what the-” You don't give Boothill time to finish, wedging your fingers between his razor-sharp teeth to pry his mouth open and dump the glass of whiskey down his throat. He gargles once, coughs twice, and swats at your hands furiously.

“You had your drink. Now run off, you robotic trash-eating vermin.” Fresh bruises are purpling on your wrists from Boothill’s strikes. It could still be worse. He could tell another joke.

Boothill is still sputtering like a drowned rat, grasping at his throat and swearing- or doing his best impression of it. “What in heaven’s holy gates, darling!?” He coughs again. “You tryna’ give me a heart attack you cute little minx?! Who just pours a drink down a man's throat?!”

“Someone who's trying to get the man to leave. You had your drink, now scram before I call animal control.” You reach to take away Boothill’s empty half-glass, only to get caught in the outlaw’s iron grip.

His spare hand slams down against the bar top, a cacophony of delicate tinkling ringing out as glassware rattles and bumps against itself. “Oh don't pull that cute crap with me, sweetheart! Pour me another one, so I can drink it nice and slow.”

“You're a jackass, you know?” The words come out hissed between your teeth, roiling with barely concealed hatred, but you’re already moving to pour him another. Every time you encounter Boothill, you curse his stubbornness.

“Watch your mouth.” His grip relaxes slightly, but he keeps his stern expression as he sits back down. “Whiskey, neat.”

You almost laugh, jerking your wrist out of his grasp- does Boothill seriously think you need a reminder? Though you’d much rather kick him to the curb with a few extra bullet holes in his ugly hat, you pour Boothill a second drink with an insulted scoff. “Yeah, yeah, I know what you fuckin’ drink.”

When Boothill takes the drink this time, he tilts the glass towards you in an encouraging motion. “Pour one for yourself, too.” The look you give him must be an incredulous one, because he scowls and waves a hand at you dismissively. “Aw, Pete's sake. Just do it!”

The sigh you heave is so heavy that Boothill briefly looks for an open window, thinking there’s a draft coming in. You drag your feet through pulling down a second glass, lamenting that now you have two dishes to do when the outlaw leaves. The pour you give yourself can be more accurately called a sip, barely coming to the width of your finger. When Boothill shoots an exasperated look your way, you already have a retort prepped for him.

“Not all of us can drink in the middle of the damn day, Boots.” You stare down at the drink, swirling it lightly with a disgusted grimace. “Besides, I’m no fan of straight whiskey. I’m more of an Old Fashioned kind of guy.”

The way Boothill smiles smugly makes you wanna punch dents into his metal chest. “Oh, bless your heart, that’s cute. Stuff’s too sweet for me, personally.” He lifts his glass to you, asking for a toast.

“Too sweet? Hell, Boots. Maybe hand sanitizer is a good match for you.” Reluctantly, you tilt your glass towards his, the rims letting out a high ringing as they meet.

This time Boothill pulls an exasperated face, raising the glass to sit just in front of his lips. “Just drink already, I’m tryna’ be nice, and you’re out here ruinin’ it with your smart lil’ mouth.”

After a second of hesitation, staring into the amber, you tip the glass back and let the drink slide down your throat. It burns, chemical and hot, like sandpaper tearing through your esophagus. It’s all you can do to not dry heave at the feeling, but you can’t stifle a coughing fit. “Fucking hell- how can you drink this shit?”

The drink came much easier to Boothill, nursing his whiskey as if he were only sipping on tap water. “Guess I just got a more refined palette, sweet thing. Thanks for sharin’ a drink with me anyway. You make a guy feel less lonely.”

For once, Boothill seems strangely earnest and you can’t help but be put off guard. You suppose, with such a polarizing personality and by the very nature of outrunning the law, Boothill must live quite the isolating life. Then again, if he wanted to be less alone, he could simply stop getting himself kicked out of bars. Still, you stumble over your words for a second, looking for a proper thing to say, and in the end only muttering out a sorry; “Yeah, sure, no problem.”

Even to you, that doesn’t quite make you sound like yourself. Dishes, you have dishes to do, a distraction that can carry your mind away from Boothill’s odd shift in demeanor. You’re expecting a snide comment about how quiet you’re being, but when you look back at Boothill, he’s fixed his gaze on an empty wall; clearly, he’s far away from here. You’re trying not to think about it too hard- Boothill’s seemingly flirtatious remarks, asking you to drink -but in the empty bar, it’s silent, and it’s almost… nice.

[bunnys-archive]

The Perfect Fit

Lucifer doesn't use the lord's name anymore- but God, you were testing his patience.

This trip was fully necessary, you'd been dragged to the Devildom in an instant, left with no time to pack and you couldn't wear your uniform all the time. Lucifer usually would've employed another one of his brothers for this task, as a shopping trip with a human was a bit beneath him, but Asmodeus was busy, and the rest were generally unruly.

He wasn't sure why you had to show him everything you tried on, but he was sure that it was making him feel things he'd rather not. The Devildom was hot, yes, but fucking hell; could you wear anything else?

The tight hug of tiny shorts around your thighs, the expanse of your skin visible beneath an all-too-small crop top, the dangerous swish of a skirt, the urge to lift it higher- no. No. About 20 minutes ago, he asked you to "dress more respectably", and now he was starting to regret it.

The end begins when you peek out of the dressing room, to make a small request of Lucifer; a zipper is giving you trouble. Lucifer has half a mind to tell you to "put it back then", but for some idiotic reason, he follows you into the small stall. The door shuts behind him with a sense of finality.

"It's here, on the back." You turn your back to him, a funny thing to do when in such close proximity to a demon. He follows your hands and finds a small zipper at the waistline, tucked slightly beneath your fingers, an invisible one- the kind that always gets stuck. "Can you just pull it closed for me?”

Lucifer assumes this will be an easy task, giving you a little nod in response. He pinched the zipper between his thumb and forefinger, then pulled the zipper up- or tried to, anyway. The zipper stays firmly in place.

"You've really gotten yourself stuck, hm?" You watch Lucifer through the mirror in front of you, his lips pressing into a firm line.

"Mm, yeah I guess…" It would've been nice to impress him with your more refined clothing choices, you'd like his approval, but this zipper seemed to be ruining things for you.

Lucifer's grip shifted and your breath hitched, a hand moving to your hip and squeezing tightly. "Hold still."

You suppress a shudder as his breath ghosts across your skin, only responding to his command with a quick nod. Lucifer's fingers bear down, squishing the flesh of your hips until they find the points of bone beneath.

The tightness of the shorts is felt far before you recognize the sound of the zipper fastening shut. The black fabric squeezes around your waist and thighs with unforgiving firmness, the fat around your hips puffing out around the hems. You instinctually yearn to rip them off, but Lucifer's hands don't leave your hips.

Here, standing in front of the mirror in the dressing room, Lucifer finally got a good look at your outfit. A white chiffon blouse, the fabric beautiful against your skin, the black bow draping over your chest matching perfectly with the shorts you'd tucked the blouse into.

"This is better." A finger slips under the waistband of your shorts, pinned against your skin. A disapproving hum rises in his throat. "A bit tight."

Under statement of the century, the shorts might as well be strangling you. Your throat is dry now, you lick your lips and try to force out words. "Yeah, I think they're a little too small."

Lucifer disagrees. The fabric pulls tight around your body, the high waist riding up high enough that he gets a peek at your ass and gives him a near-perfect imprint of your bulge. Hands slowly stroke your sides, up and down, from your ribcage to your hips; you and Lucifer are holding eye contact through the mirror.

Slowly, painfully, you watch while Lucifer's hand brushes its way down the front of your body. His hand lands on the soft swell in your pants, and you draw in a sharp breath. Surely, he won't do it- right? Lucifer, the refined, prideful man, would never grope a lowly human such as yourself.

"How does it feel?" Your thoughts come to an abrupt halt when Lucifer’s voice rumbles in your ear.

"How does-" You begin to turn, to look back to Lucifer and beg the question that burns you, but he squeezes your growing hard-on and you fall still with a strained gasp.

He reiterates the question, trying to burrow through the thickening fog of your brain.

“How do the shorts feel?” Lucifer’s long fingers wiggle beneath the hemline of your shorts and briefs, smoothing over the skin of your tummy. It’s hard to think while he’s drawing circles on your skin, the soft leather of his gloves fueling the heat between your legs.

“They, uh,” you swallow hard, “they feel good.” A strangled whimper spills from your throat when one of Lucifer’s hands encircles the base of your cock, his touch so faint it’s tantalizing.

“How good?” His is velvet-smooth in your ear, breath hot against your skin.

This was a terrible idea, the dressing rooms aren’t noise absorbent and Lucifer is a man of high status, it’s best if you both put this idea out of your minds. Logically, you both know better than to go on.

“Lucifer, we shouldn’t be doing this-” Your hand slaps itself over your mouth on instinct, muffling the dangerously loud whine that ripped from your throat; the demon had squeezed your shaft so tightly that it ached.

You can’t help but squirm when Lucifer lets out a disappointed sigh next to your ear, his hands sliding from your shorts. “That’s not what I asked.”

Your head spins as Lucifer shoves you up against the dressing room mirror, his hand on the back of your head and forcing your cheek into the cold glass. The popping of stitches is so loud that it feels like a gun has gone off in your ears, you flinch all the same when Lucifer unceremoniously tears off your shorts.

“Now, let’s try again,” Lucifer discarded his glove in a heartbeat, and the sensitive nerves of your precum-slicked dick are exposed to the demon’s calloused skin. “Tell me how good it feels.”

Now, it’s not a question, Lucifer has given you a demand, spurred on by the quick and rough way he strokes your cock. Your body craves his touch, arching and bucking into Lucifer’s hand almost wildly with a chorus of pitiful whimpers. “Good- oh, f- good! It feels so-”

Lucifer abruptly stuffs his leather glove into your mouth with a scoff of disgust- you realize it tastes of the precum you leaked all over his hand.

“You’re too fucking noisy,” His stroking hand slowed to a near halt, squeezing so tightly around the tip of your cock that you wail into the glove between your teeth, pre dripping down your shaft and onto the dingey carpet in thick globs. “Are you trying to get caught? Do you know what will happen to you if Lord Diavolo hears of this?”

“A demon of such high ranking, like myself, having intimate relations with the human exchange? A much weaker,” the rough skin of Lucifer’s thumb brushes over your slit and you groan at the sting, tears gathering on your lash line, “more vulnerable creature.”

“A scandal like this would take a terrible toll on my standing.” He takes care to trace over the veins of your length, seemingly lost in thought and paying little mind towards your pathetic cries. “We’d have to get rid of you, of course.”

Blood stills in your veins; how painfully vague of him. Your attempts to argue are quickly dismissed, Lucifer only stuffs the glove further into your mouth with a condescending coo.

“Hush, hush, no talking.” He pats your thigh comfortingly, like trying to quiet an anxious pet. “Perhaps my brothers could find some use for you before you’re discarded…”

Lucifer hums in thought, trailing his hand over your balls, then back towards your ass. Precum-slicked fingers draw tight circles over your rim, pausing to just barely press inside you and watch you squirm back against him. “Or maybe, we’d get to keep you.”

The suggestion has you beyond delighted, grinding back onto Lucifer’s hand with a moan and a trembling grin as he finally forces two fingers into your tight ass. “You’d look good in a cage, don’t you think?”

You’re in no position to disagree, bracing yourself against the mirror as you rock into the thrusts of Lucifer’s hand urgently. You need a little more, just a little more and you can cum. Your moans grow higher and higher in pitch- you’re not being subtle in the slightest. Your cock is twitching and throbbing vigorously, the rough tips of Lucifer’s fingers scraping against your insides only worsening the heat in your tummy.

Your moans are beginning to sound more like sobs, turning utterly incoherent as you finally, finally- there’s a slick pop as Lucifer pulls his fingers out, leaving you dazed and needy. At last, you let the glove fall from between your teeth, turning back to plead with Lucifer but scarcely getting a whimper out before he grabs you by the cheeks.

“You’re such a mess,” he laughs, actually laughs into your hot, tear-stained face. and drags you to the ground, leaving scuffs on your knees. “What makes you think you’ve earned the right to cum? What have you done for me?”

Lucifer’s hand tangles in the hair at the nape of your neck, forcing your face into the tent in his pants. “If you do well, I’ll consider letting you cum, how’s that?”

You can feel the warmth of his erection on your cheek, your own cock spasming in response. Like a bitch in heat, you can’t help but nuzzle against his bulge, eager to get it out of his pants and inside you. Your clumsy hands make quick work of the buttons and zipper on his slacks, freeing his cock in a matter of seconds- you don’t even need instructions before you take the head of his dick in your mouth, sucking away the pre that had gathered at Lucifer’s tip. The taste is tangy, salty, and beckons you to take Lucifer’s cock further into your mouth.

The promise of an orgasm makes you work hard; bobbing along Lucifer’s length, tracing your tongue over the veins on his length, squelching obscenely as you suck away at him. A hand tangles in your hair, pushing the stray tufts away from your face and tilting your head to stare up at Lucifer. You’re helpless to do anything but watch as he slides his hand to the back of your head, slowly pushing you to sleeve the rest of his cock into your throat. For a moment, you struggle against Lucifer’s grip, throat constricting around his dick as you attempt not to choke.

“Don’t struggle,” Lucifer warns, pressing your nose against the short hairs at his pelvis more firmly when you don’t listen. “Don’t.”

Finally, you go lax against him, tongue lolling out to lick at Lucifer’s sac while you go on attempting to slurp at his dick. Hesitantly, as if waiting for you to fight him once more, Lucifer pumps his hips against your face with a satisfied sigh. “Good boy, good boy; you’re doing perfect.”

You can feel the ridges and veins of his cock sliding over your tongue and scraping the inside of your throat . It aches but you don't move, you're too drunk on his praise to even consider it.

He starts with a slow in-and-out pump, reassurance that you're not going to choke on his dick, before his grip shifts yet again. The hand once positioned in your hair slides down to your neck, Lucifer's wide palm covering the column of your throat with ease, his fingers digging into the soft flesh on either side–he's getting a firm grip. You panic on the first sharp thrust into your mouth, hands smacking at Lucifer's thighs frantically while you gag and retch around his length, but he hardly seems to notice.

The demon is utterly lost in his own pleasure, his head tilted back in hitched sighs as he fucks your throat with the same mindless ferocity as a toy. Wet gargles fill the small dressing room as you desperately attempt to get a single breath, fingers curled in the fabric of Lucifer's pants. Air, you need air, you can't get a proper breath in with Lucifer's dick filling your throat. The corners of your vision are starting to go dark, your head fuzzy, your lungs are beginning to burn.

Only when you're sure that Lucifer is going to let you suffocate does he pull you off his cock, thick webs of saliva stuck to his tip and your lips. You gasp and cough wetly, the lightheadedness fading with each new inhale.

"Up on your feet." The command comes and you nearly sob, nothing sounds more impossible to you than standing.

With deer legs, you stumble into something resembling a standing position, still huffing and whimpering weakly.

"Hands against the mirror, now." Lucifer motions with a hand for you to turn around and stand against the mirror and like an obedient bitch, you do so.

Mostly, you're leaning on the mirror, chest pressed up against the glass and hips tilted back for Lucifer, you're too exhausted to do much else.

"No, not like that." Lucifer sighs in annoyance, grasping you by the hips and pulling you back until you're bent over at the waist, only your palms flat against the mirror.

The moments of silence between his words left you trembling with anticipation, sweaty palms leaving sticky prints on the mirror. A fingertip traces a trail of fire down your spine, before smoothing flat against the small of your back, steadying you as the tip of Lucifer's cock squishes up against your rim. You expect him to push forward, to finally fuck you like you need- but he waits, the head of his dick pressed to your entrance, with no sign of moving. Your impatience grows, cock leaking precum over your thighs, slickening your skin as you rub them together.

"Lucifer…?" With a small rock back, you whine of his name, trying to coax him into fucking you.

He only pulls his hips back, drawing a pitiful noise from your throat. "Beg. Beg for me to fuck you."

Your words catch in your throat, shame keeping you quiet. When Lucifer's hand strikes your thigh, you have to bite your lip to muffle a yelp.

"I could leave you here; a dripping, needy, slut." His words are a cruel hiss, forcing tears to well in your eyes. "Just beg, tell me how badly you want me inside of you, or you get nothing."

Still, your jaw is firmly closed, far too ashamed to say anything- until Lucifer begins to pull away.

"No! No, no, please," the threat becomes real and you panic, bracing one arm against the mirror and using your free hand to spread yourself open for him. "Please Lucifer, I want you so bad, I need you…"

Every word is a whisper, still afraid of getting caught, but too worked up to possibly go without Lucifer's cock now. A self-satisfied smile spreads across Lucifer's face as he retakes his place behind you.

"So you can beg, what an obedient whore." The tip of Lucifer's dick taps against your hole, before he slowly slides past your rim with a low groan. "Fuck… are you this tight for everyone, or am I special?"

"Jus- just you…" You barely manage to murmur back, but Lucifer is beyond pleased with your answer, finally driving cock to the hilt with a low groan- you are a perfect fit for his cock.

Now he sets his pace, something steady and forceful that fucks the thoughts from your head on every inward stroke, the walls of the dressing room one hard thrust away from trembling beneath your weight. With every pull back, the head of Lucifer's dick drags over your prostate, your legs twitching and quivering in sensitivity- it's taking everything in you to stay quiet, but that's not what Lucifer wants.

"Talk- come on, talk for me, pretty boy, tell me how good you feel." With that gasping command your mouth falls open and a flood of praise rolls out.

"You feel so good, thank you, fuck, thank you- harder, please-" Any thought of silence is lost in the haze of lust, pleading for Lucifer to go harder, to go faster, for more, more, more.

Lucifer throws his head back with an unrestrained groan, slamming his hips against yours with unprecedented speed and force, tearing moans from your chest with ease.

"Oh God-" Lucifer grips your hair tightly to cut off your cry, his tone turning furious.

"Don't you-" he loses his words in a slew of curses for a moment. "-don't you ever call for anyone else, fuck, I am your god, understand?"

The moment he asks, you nod- but that's not enough. The hold on your hair tightens, and Lucifer pulls your head back, forcing you to face your reflection in the glass; covered in your own spit and tears, the thin white fabric of your blouse turned sheer from sweat.

"Say it." Lucifer's voice drops to a dangerous hiss, his free hand moving to stroke the length of your dick in time with his thrusts.

You let out a wail the moment he touches you, a fresh stream of tears welling up and rolling down your cheeks.

"You! You're m-my God!" It's slurred and sobbed, but at this moment, you mean your words completely.

Abruptly, Lucifer pulls you back against his chest by the scalp, then locks his arm around your neck, constricting your airways.

"Who?" Lucifer presses on, prompting another answer from you.

Even though your voice is strained through his tight grip, you call out for him, an obedient worshipper. "Lucifer!"

He lets out a shuddering sigh of pleasure. "Again."

"Lucifer!" You answer, and his pace falters for a moment. "Again, louder." He commands once more, and you follow.

"Lucifer!" His hips pump into you even faster, and your cock is beginning to throb erratically, you're so close.

"Louder!" Lucifer's voice pounds through your skull, you think this must be madness.

"Lucifer, Lucifer, Lucifer!" At last, your orgasm hits you all at once with an ear-splitting scream, every muscle in your body drawing taut within Lucifer's hold.

You arch against him, legs kicking at his shins as Lucifer holds you up by nothing but his arm around your throat, your cum splattering against the fitting room mirror. With all your tightening and convulsing, Lucifer's orgasm isn't far behind, his thrusts have turned irregular and unsteady- but you're struggling for breath, clawing his prim black dress shirt in desperation.

At last, you feel hot cum flood your insides in tandem with Lucifer's shuddering groan, and a heartbeat later, he lets you go. You crumple beneath your weight, letting his cock slip free from your ass as you fall forward against the mirror. You can't help but see yourself- rather, the mess you've become. Heaving and panting, your face glistening with saliva, tears, and snot, strands of your cum caught in your hair and smeared over your skin from where you hit the mirror.

"Well, then." Lucifer is already tucking his dick back into his pants, retrieving his discarded gloves from the floor. "Get up, we've been here long enough."

Tongue heavy in your mouth, you can barely even form the words to protest. "I… I can't…"

A firm hand grasps your upper arm and yanks you up to your feet. Feeling Lucifer's cum ooze from your ass, you can't help but shiver- a few drops hit your calves and soak into your boxers, still looped around your ankles.

Lucifer huffs out a disappointed mutter when you sag against him, then guides you to wrap your arms around his neck. Luckily, Lucifer helps you redress yourself, pulling your boxers back up, then stuffing you back into your uniform dress pants- however, you're left in the sweat-stained blouse.

Lips press against your ear, a whispered threat. "You're going to walk by yourself. If you stumble or don't keep up, I will whip you bloody- understand?"

There's nothing you can do but nod. You've given yourself to Lucifer completely, mind, body, and soul- and a worshipper does not deny the requests of his god.

[bunnys-archive]

Quiet Game

The thing people fail to mention when talking about vacation is that it does not start as relaxing. In fact, arranging a vacation is perhaps the most stressful thing in all the realms, particularly when the two people attempting to get away are you and Lucifer. Your first struggles came with finding a location, it’s taken an entire month just to locate somewhere to spend one week without his siblings or the prince of hell hot on your tails.

Separately, you each consider giving up on the proposal. Only separately, though you’re sure he’s picked up on exactly what you’re thinking when you pull your thumb along your jaw in thought, pausing when your nail catches on the irregularity of a blemish. He makes a note to cut your nails again. You’re also pretty sure he’s thinking the exact same thing. It’d be in your best interest to have a conversation about your hesitation, to stop exchanging tense glances and terse words. Pride is a powerful sin, the demon knows it best, and it eats at you both– apples with worms, the both of you. Neither of you have declared this war, but the idea stands nonetheless; the first to bring up backing out on vacation loses.

Graceless losers, the both of you. You open your mouth first. In one of the quick moments between corralling the rest of the demon family and tending to your tasks, you stalk up to his office and pull the nice whiskey glasses down from his cabinets. Smooth and perfectly clear, with a slight dimple in the center for your fingers to sit comfortably. It’s cool in your hands. You recall the story he told you- slurred and spluttered out, because he was beyond sloppy drunk at the time -about how the glass had been enchanted to stay cold forever, and they were a gift from Simeon that he pretended not to use. It’s manipulative, surely, the way you tenderly brush over his weak spots, only to sink your fingernails in. But it’s useful, isn’t it?

The good bottle of liquor sits at the bottom of a drawer in his desk, equal parts hard demonus and human-world whiskey- it’s only fair if you both get drunk. You pour them half full with the amber cocktail and place one glass atop the stack of paperwork in front of Lucifer. He grimaces at the wet ring left on the paper as he picks up the glass, quickly producing a polished wooden coaster from the top left drawer. You had poked fun at him for the coasters on several occasions, “kitschy” you called them.

“Trying to loosen me up, are you?” He’s clever enough to know your plans, kind enough to fall for them. When you make yourself at home on the armrest of his expensive leather chair, he only replaces his arm on your lap.

The silence is warmer than the liquor, and for a few seconds you consider not ruining the moment. You want to sit still and nurse your drink and crush his paperwork beneath your feet. Instead, you speak. “About the trip…”

The silence is colder than the glass, still Lucifer pretends he is reading something on the page. His eyes haven’t moved for the last minute and a half. “What about the trip?”

Shame rushes through you like a blast of frozen wind. You hate yourself for even considering this, he made one request of you- in your best interest -and you refuse to honor it. Worst of all, you’re losing. In a similar fashion you consider this; he is winning, and he hates it. It’ll turn into a blade he holds over your head, ready to drop when you next deny him something. The blood will fly, the argument will sting and again, you’ll go to bed angry.

“I was thinking that a week might be…” You leave space for him to say something, the zit behind your ear feels tempting, more so when your fingers crawl up your neck and rub slow circles over the whitehead. Say something.

“Too long?” He frowns, slight wrinkles around his forehead as his brows pinch together; but the light in his eyes spins a different story. Relief. There’s a mirthful glow in his dark red eyes that spells it all out for you, the truth you knew from the start– he never wanted to take a break.

No one can deny the results, the work Lucifer produces in such short order is incredible, and for whittling himself down to the bone, he earns exactly what he wants. Concern, comfort, care; but more importantly, admiration. It is undeniable that the abuse he inflicts upon himself is sick, and every person- human and demon alike -would say that to him, fingers crossed behind their backs as they scold him, whispering just how beautifully whittled himself to the bone with close-lipped smiles. It’s self flagellation, a man of the church may never truly outgrow it. You make a point to never praise him for it. You think he hates you a bit for it.

Fingernails, blunt but sharp-edged, pinch. It’s tight, doesn’t want to pop, if you weren’t so consumed with tearing yourself apart, the pimple might’ve matured long enough to be satisfying. You pinch harder, harder still and-

A deep breath. Fingertips slide down the side of your neck, hand resting calmly at the slope between your neck and shoulder. The leather creaks as it rubs against itself and Lucifer wraps his hand around yours. Were you an ounce bolder, you might’ve pulled the glove off. But before you are his lover, you are a sore loser. So you take a leisurely sip of your cocktail, lean your head against his shoulder, and lie.

“No.” He looks up. You’ve thrown him off, masking your victorious grin with a careful expression of disinterest. “I think we should take a longer break. Might as well make the vacation count, right?”

Lucifer taps a finger against his sweating glass, obviously annoyed. He takes a hiss of breath in and sips more demonus- good, he’s agreeable when he’s buzzed. “Two weeks, then?”

It’s chicken, a game for stupid schoolboys, not functional adults, but you’re playing anyway. Lucifer is allergic to rest, doubling the time is a bold move, but you’re about to blow him out of the water.

You hum, as though you actually take a moment to think about your answer, in reality you leap to this conclusion without a moment’s hesitation. “A month?”

The room is quiet enough that you can hear the precise moment when his shiny black fountain pen strikes the red rug beneath the desk- and you positively revel in it. Your smugness hides behind a well-placed sip from your glass, closed as you choose to focus on the flavor of the drink; it burns, the whiskey like a match trying to light itself in your throat, but demonus has always tasted a bit like fruit juice to you. You can’t quite place what fruit in particular. Perhaps dates.

When you open your eyes again, his hair is in a state of disarray, clearly he’s been running his hands through it. “That is positively asinine,” the defeat already creeps into his voice, “you know that’s much too long. Prince Diavolo-”

“-Will pass this work off to someone else.” You reassure, fingernails tracing patterns up and down his spine. “Barbatos can do more than clean. He’s not a housewife.”

Halfway towards tipsy, Lucifer chuckles, a joke he shouldn’t approve of out loud. “He’d make a good one.” Still he finds his manners through the haze of alcohol. “Still, that is far too long.”

“That’s not what I wanna hear,” you’re a bit far from the sober side yourself. Only dregs remain in your glasses, you take the liberty refilling Lucifer’s and holding it to his lips.

The serpent in Eve’s ear, forked tongue flicking out from your sharp smile as you hold the apple to his mouth. The cold rim sits on his bottom lip, a great temptation to abscond from his duties. A sweet, spiced fruit scent rises from the drink and clouds the responsible part of his brain. He thinks harder, you watch the gears turn sequentially in time with the cogs in your own head.

Lucifer’s workload could be parted three ways; Diavolo would be happy to accommodate. Barbatos would do anything the prince commanded. Mephistopheles was an obnoxious prick, but plenty capable.

Click.

Your duties could easily be juggled between Solomon and Satan. Solomon could easily cover the majority, Satan wouldn’t mind picking up your slack around the House of Lamentation- so long as you promised to accompany him to an event later on. A book signing or a live showing of something or other, if you had to guess.

Click.

Simeon could cover all the nights either of you were meant to cook. He’d take utter delight in being asked a favor from Lucifer, perform to the best of his ability and hope for some kind of compensation when you return, though he would never voice such desires. You wonder if Lucifer was anything like him as a younger man. You’d invite him to the event Satan drags you to, the two have such aligning interests that you wouldn’t even have to speak; two birds, one stone.

Click.

Everything slides into place. Denying you would be to his detriment, if he said no now, he’d have to explain the real reason he’s so staunchly against time off. You know he’s not drunk enough to do that, not yet anyway.

A sigh fogs up the glass, still sitting persistently against his lips. “A month it is, then.”

Your spare hand untangles from his own and gently caresses his jaw. The lightest brush of your thumb against the corner of his mouth and Lucifer is parting his lips, letting you tip the glass forward and the liquor cascade down his throat. The white flag, an admission of defeat. Satisfied, you place his cup down on the kitschy wooden coaster.

Now it's your turn to drink, the acrid burn of whiskey soothed by the aromatic flavor of demonus as you swallow half the glass in a single breath. The stress has given way to brain melting relief, endorphins and alcohol clogging your neural networks. It's clumsy, the way you slide off the armrest and lean against his desk, pulling the same party trick as before and effectively finishing your drink in two swallows.

"I should," a slow blink, the words are coming to you, "I should let you finish… this."

You vaguely flick your wrist at the dampened stack of papers on Lucifer's desktop and he finally remembers they're there, a sour expression coming to sit over his features.

"Yes." Fingers tapping on the glass again, a metronome keeping time for the silence.

Abruptly, Lucifer shoves his chair back, following your lead and drinking the rest of his demonus in only a few moments. Lucifer has had quite the day, for the first time in a while, he lost and got that, he deserves rest. Before he is your lover, he is a sore loser.

The enchanted glasses are left on the desk– problems for another morning –and Lucifer abandons his post.

You can't help but snicker a bit, the booze has you feeling light. "Leaving work early? Who are you?"

Clearly, the demonus has gotten to his head too; instead of rolling his eyes or scolding you, Lucifer slings you over his shoulder with a pat on the ass and a chuckle you can feel through his chest.

"I am Lucifer, one of the seven deadly lords of hell," you can hear the smile as he recites his pompous title, "and I'll do whatever I damn well please."

Things start to get blurry as he walks you through the darkened halls of the House of Lamentation, lost in the momentary bliss. You get along so well when you're drunk, an old fashioned couple. You decide not to think about that any harder.

The world sways for a second when Lucifer places you back on your feet, you find yourself balling a fist into the cotton of his button-up and leaning against his arm, eyes closed.

"Come on," he elbows you a bit, and you grunt back in an annoyed way, pushing more of your weight on him in protest. "Stop that, I'm trying to go to bed."

You snort and wrap both arms around him, stubbornly tucking your head against his shoulder. "Me too, and you're ruining it."

"Hush, hush." A last ditch effort, Lucifer pries your hands away from them and holds them in his own- even through your whiskey addled brain, you note that his skin is soft and warm.

Your eyes open only to narrow slits, a glare at the man in front of you. Still, he keeps a closed lipped smile as he walks you back towards the bed; Lucifer's hands find the buttons on your uniform and yours fumble with his silk tie.

The clumsy tango of undressing comes to an end when the backs of Lucifer's thighs hit the mattress- by then he's still wearing his pants and your shirt still hangs open on your arms. Even so, Lucifer sits on the edge of the bed and pulls you down with him, straddling one of his knees. You only get a few minutes to push off your shirt and try to unbuckle his belt before Lucifer throws his arms around you and rolls over onto the comforter.

It's too late in the night, and you're just too buzzed to care that the cold metal of his belt buckle is pressed right up again your stomach- at least, you don't care enough to move, complaining is a different story.

"You're fuckin' heavy." You grunt in annoyance, half-heartedly pawing at Lucifer's bare shoulder. The weight of his body crushes your chest, honestly it hurts a little bit.

"So are you," his voice murmurs right against your ear, coaxing you to the ignore the discomfort- a metaphor, maybe. "Do you know how hard it is carrying you?"

From there, the room goes quiet, and a new game starts; "quiet game", how childish, and yet how apt. You're playing parent and child, at last the noise has been too much. So the room stays quiet, and tonight, maybe you're both graceless winners.

[bunnys-archive]

Skinship

He hates not being more present, he really does. You say you're not all that bothered. You promise Lucifer when he takes your hand in his, that you're okay, that you understand he's busy, and that you're satisfied with these stolen moments of affection.

Lucifer notices the skin under your fingernails and thinks otherwise. He knows you think you're okay, but he also knows "okay" is relative. He knows you better. Okay is a low, low bar.

Lucifer has learned to watch you closely; you pick at the blemishes on your face, hangnails, paper cuts, scabs, until the small imperfections turn to bleeding gashes. You do it like an addict, picking until you bleed, looking for more to tear away. With every small wound guilt swallows Lucifer, that he can't be there for you every hour of every day, soothing your stressors- but at least he can be there at night. At the end of the day, you both end up in the same bed in his room, that's your one solace.

What had been just Lucifer's room had been co-opted into both of your rooms, little touches from each of you here and there- getting you to decorate with your own things was like pulling teeth. It relieved you both to know that even if you were sleeping alone now eventually someone else would crawl in beside you. Usually, you'd be asleep by the time Lucifer got done with today's work, and you had gotten back to the room before him like always; but you just laid still in the king size bed, bathed in blue half darkness from the singular candle you'd left glowing with magic on the nightstand.

Tomorrow, the day after, the week after; planning, planning, planning and picking, picking, picking. Your fingertips smoothed over your cheek, searching for purchase in your skin, like footholds in a cliff side. They wandered down to your jaw, finding a blemish on the soft pouch between your neck and chin. Your fingernails moved on their own, hungry for the satisfaction of tearing, they pinched and scratched- it was a zit. You needed to wash your face more, It's been a while, you don't really know where to start with that, you should ask Asmodeus. Something wet and warm on your skin- you should clean the sheets, vacuum in here too, how long has it been? Maybe you could talk Lucifer into hiring staff, no he didn't need more on his plate and that would be expensive, talk to Barbatos to get help. Running down your fingers- you had dinner duty tomorrow, you haven't even thought about it yet, you'll have to come up with something on the fly-

"You're still awake." Lucifer's voice makes you sit up in bed, you realize he's right. You are still awake, when you'd sworn you'd gone to bed an hour ago.

Your fingers are wet and red, your jaw stings like a bite. "I just…" you don't really know, there's nothing to say that he can't see.

Relief, your hands look for it in the space around your nail beds, tearing the skin back to search for the feeling.

"Stop that." Lucifer scolds, harsh but not cruel. He pries your hands apart from each other, it's for himself as much as you, he hates watching you do that. "I'll clip your nails myself if I have to."

He thinks, briefly, about a fun fact Satan had told him when he was little, that when parrots are stressed they'll pluck out their own feathers and it reminds him of you. Then he thinks that he isn't much better, all that drinking and the late nights.

"What are you thinking about?" Lucifer doesn't bother with “what's wrong?” because you don't want to talk about what's wrong, you never do.

You want to draw your hand back to your chin, you feel the urge and Lucifer feels you try and pull your hands out of his for a moment. "It's not a big deal, I'm okay."

Lucifer squeezes your hands and swallows hard, he swears he can hear his jaw groaning as he clenches his teeth. ���I'm okay” that phrase makes him want to bite things.

"Go sit in the bathroom." It sounds like he's choking on his frustration with how quiet the request comes out. As quick as you open your mouth to protest he interrupts. "Please."

The look on Lucifer's face makes you cave, there was something so tired and weak in his expression, perhaps the tilt of his brows or the slowly darkening rings beneath his eyes. You comply- if only to get him to stop making that awful face -and silently walk to the bathroom. The walk of shame, too irresponsible for your own fingernails, you think. You've scratched up too many valuable things, and now you're to be declawed.

You watch, from a room away, as Lucifer runs his fingers through his hair, he sighs and rubs his temples, then sheds his heavy overcoat. He keeps his gloves on, you think they make him feel safe. It's hardly a second before he's in the bathroom with you, bending down to open the cupboard beneath the sink while you stand there, barefoot on the cold tile.

Lucifer doesn't bother with words when he stands up again, only pulling your hand until it hovers over the sink. The first click of the nail clippers feels like a gunshot, it's loud and jarring, and you flinch.

You wish Lucifer would take his gloves off. You want him to close the millimeter thick gap, because warmth of his hands would be comforting now and you're craving the skinship; but you don't say anything, and Lucifer doesn't look up. You just watch as the overworked head of the household clips your goddamn fingernails for you after his long, hard day. Guilt fills your chest like lake water, you swear to God you're drowning in it, you can feel the burn in your lungs with every futile breath. The water rises from your lungs, to your throat, then before you know it you can feel it burning your eyes. You swear that you're not going to cry, no matter what it takes, you will not make this worse for him.

"Deep breaths." Lucifer warns- he heard you gasping for air, trying to swallow your tears. You nod, words are dangerous now, opening your mouth means opening the floodgates. For a moment, Lucifer pauses, and removes his gloves; you hadn't even noticed he'd finished clipping your nails. It's gentle when he grasps your finger between his own, carefully filling down any sharp edges. By the time he's filed all of your fingernails into smooth, blunt edges, you'd found your breath again, engrossed with watching the simple process.

He washes your hands for you, and you think that he doesn't have to do that, but maybe Lucifer just wants to. The water is pleasantly warm and the hand soap smells like Lucifer; it's not distinct to you, but has a vaguely masculine scent, maybe sandalwood?

When you finally look back at Lucifer, some of the creases in his face have loosened, maybe he can finally be at ease with knowledge you can't hurt yourself anymore.

Both of you stand in front of the bathroom mirror as he rubs ointment into the wound below your chin; Lucifer right behind you as he tilts your head this way and that, fussing over you like a mother hen.

"Maybe," Lucifer rumbles quietly, you can feel his chest move as he talks, pressed up against your back. "You should take a week off."

Your expression sours and he notices. "I can handle this."

"You don't need to convince me." The reply is quick and confident, like it rested on the tip of his tongue before you even spoke. "I know you're capable, it's one of your best qualities." He means “I love that about you” and you both know it. "But that doesn't mean you don't need a break."

You stifled a sarcastic snort- he had some nerve telling you to take a break, you couldn't recall the last time he had even a day to himself.

He places a bandaid over your injury and you study his expression in the mirror for a long while; it only takes a minute for him to meet your eyes through the perfectly polished glass.

"And…" His Adam's apple bobs with a hard swallow, trying to work up the words he wanted. "I miss you. I'd like to spend time with you." The way Lucifer chokes out the words was rough, like he'd coughed up sand rather than a confession.

It's quiet for a long time, you're trying to outlast each other, but his subtle frown is wearing on you.

"Okay." He visibly relaxes when you agree, shoulders going lax and jaw loosening. "If you take a break with me."

The tension returns to his body immediately- a week-long break is a hard sell for Lucifer. Both of you are workaholics, maybe that's why you work, maybe that's why you struggle; who's to say?

When he clicks his tongue, you know it's in defeat. "Fine, if it's what you want."

For this first time in a long time, you break into a grin, smug and victorious. "It is."

Lucifer huffs a small laugh, and you know it's to try and cover his own grin, but he just distracts himself further by picking up and putting on his gloves. "Don't look so triumphant."

The lilt to his voice is joyful, teasing, you missed that. It dawns on both of you, how tired you've both been for so long, and how similar you both are.

"You should go to bed." The smiling is gone, and the teasing has been put away, but his tone is not unkind.

You couldn't help the scowl that crawled it's way onto your face. "Don't use your dad voice on me," he almost looks offended that you called it that,"you need to go to bed."

"Here's an idea," firm hands grasp beneath your armpits and lift you from the ground, "We could both go to bed."

Lucifer, the man who doesn't like cats, holding you like one as he walks you over to your bed. The way he drops you into the mattress is so unceremonious you can't help but laugh a little. He rounds to his side of the mattress and sits on the edge of the bed, turning back for a moment to check on you and give a small smile. You watch while he unlaces his shoes, unbuttons his shirt and slides off his dress pants, fighting the urge to sleep; you've made it this long, you're determined not to stumble in the home stretch.

At long last, Lucifer's done all he needs to do and crawls his way beneath the covers with you. You shuffled up next to him, tucked against Lucifer's side as he wrapped an arm around your shoulders.

Sleep was quickly approaching, already pulling your eyes closed. Your words sounded distant, like you were speaking through a mouthful of water, but at the very least Lucifer's response to you was clear.

"I love you too.”

[bunnys-archive]

Unbalanced Diet

“I love you.” You know. It sits on your tongue like a stone in your mouth.

He says it everyday, his devotion total, complete, unwavering; it should be admirable. At first, you tried to count how many times he said it, tally marks carved in the grooves on your brain- you lost track four days in.

Warm hands creep under the hem of your silken robe, roughed palms smoothing over your cold shoulders, a honeyed voice whispering in your ear. “I love you more than anything, mon amour.”

The silence of anticipation is loud, but you stay quiet, even as Rook’s warm hands wander their way down your chest and the white silk falls away, feeling more like a wildfire on your skin. Bare legs and arms are laid open the frigid air of the dining room and you sink back against the fine oaken dinner chair, as if trying to steal Rook’s heat through the seat back.

His hot fingers pause over your stiffened nipples, still tender and aching. “It’s our anniversary today, darling.”

“It-” There’s a little flick over the swollen nub as you try to answer, Rook just wants to hear you stumble for him, watch you squirm. “It is?”

“Oui, c'est le cas.” Idly, thumbs brush back and forth over your sensitive nipples, slow and patient. “Every moment of this year with you has been utter bliss, mon amour, beyond ecstasy.”

“For this momentous occasion,” Rook’s lips press against your temple, the crest of your ear, your jaw, “I believe a special meal is an order, non?” Then finally land on the column of your throat.

The points of his teeth nip at your thin skin, a soft pinch, soothed with the flick of his tongue. A kiss from any other man would be so sweet. You shiver under his touch, from the crisp air or the terror you can’t decide. When you swallow back a distressed noise Rook can feel your throat bob under his tongue, teeth scraping against your Adam's apple, eager for a bite. You wonder how exactly he wants you.

All at once the heat of his breath disappeared from your skin and Rook’s weathered hands returned to your shoulders, pulling up your silken robe to once more cover your skin. “I’ll get started on dinner then, don’t go anywhere mon chéri!” He laughs, and it’s not funny.

You listen, listless, as heavy work boots stalk away from you; the steps are slow and deliberate, as if he wants you to hear exactly where he's going. Five long strides behind you, then three more to the left and… he's passed the kitchen. There’s a sort of rhythmic pounding in your skull, it might be your pulse, but your brain had it confused for the beat of Rook’s boots against the hardwood as he stalks down the hall. The footsteps fade but the throbbing in your head stays, freshly renewed as a weighty metallic click meets your ears, and paired with a profound tightness in your chest when you realize Rook has opened the door to the basement. Beyond that, he’s left the door open, which he’s done before- how many times you’re not sure.

All at once you’re pulled to the mouth of the basement again. Now is your chance, maybe your only chance, since Rook wasn’t home. Your sheer silken socks did little to protect the soft soles of your feet from the splintered wood on the first step. How odd, the rest of the house is in mint condition, but this corridor is left in disrepair. As you felt along the wall for a light switch, you came to the realization that perhaps the basement hall had never been in repair; your groping did not reveal a lightswitch, rather that the walls were unfinished. Fingers grazed the flesh and bones of the house, a wooden skeleton filled with soft insulation in its gaps. The foundation groaned, perhaps a reaction to touching the open cavity in the wall, perhaps a warning to turn away. You felt around a moment longer but there was no light switch to be found. You’d continue in the dark.

At your back, the creaking of the steps and rattle of chains followed close on your heels, you were terribly aware that if you needed to run, you’d be doomed. The length of chain was too short for a full stride. It rubbed, cold and insistent over your ankles, a reminder. In front of you, only blackness, a warning.

The entire world seemed to disappear behind you as you delved deeper into the intestines of the house, and the farther you went, the more alive it felt- and God did you go far. The basement stairwell seemed to stretch on into the abyss ad infinitum, it gave you plenty of time to reconsider your choice, especially when the air began to change around you. Where the house above retained a cold, sterile feeling, the narrow passage of the stairwell grew warm and humid the further you pushed on. Soon enough it took on a putrid stench, growing in strength with every step; by the time you reached the foot of the stairs it was so potent you had to suppress the urge to gag. Rancid eggs or animal feces or something of the like: you could name a thousand things as olid and never once touch the intensity with which the basement reeked that night. While you couldn’t logically place the smell, a deep instinctual part of your brain put a name to the stench as easily as you took a breath. Something had died here.

A wave of nausea rocked over you so violently that you blindly grabbed for the wall to steady yourself, surprised when you found a thin metal chain in your grasp. Before you could properly debate with yourself, something cool brushed across the back of your neck; too light to be a sigh, yet too undefined to be a gust of wind- how would the bowels of the house even get fresh air? It felt more like someone letting go of something they had held onto for a long time, a final exhale. Or maybe it was nothing, you’re not sure you want to know.

“...Hello?” Your voice sounded miniscule in the face of the unending blackness.

Anxiously, you waited for a reply- rather a lack thereof. Your ears caught the sound of buzzing insects, you became aware of the flitting gnats and flies as they zipped past your face, the lack of ventilation, the-

“Turn on the light.” Rook was not home.

You kept taking in breaths to scream, but the noise remained stuck in your throat, only making awkward, fish-like gasps that left you lightheaded. The dark, the bugs, the smell, it was messing with you. There was nothing down there. There was no one down there. There couldn’t be. To die in that basement, surrounded by the rancid air, losing count of the days- could there be a more horrible fate? Would it be worse to live here, or die here; you’re no longer sure.

Thin, cold hands slithered over your shoulders- Rook wasn’t supposed to be home -slid over the expanse of your collarbone, traveled further up your throat and tilted your head back. Stretching, straining, the tendons in your neck began to ache, but you leaned as far as he made you, until you were eye-to-eye.

“Why don’t we go upstairs?”

You wake up in cold sweat, tell tale heart hammering against the bars of your ribcage, traitorous to the calm you’d sworn yourself to keep. The gleam of the dining room table, the stiffness of your chair, the incessant pain in your tendons- it all comes bleeding back in. Time is slippery, you could’ve been dozing for an hour or a week and you wouldn’t know the difference. The tantalizing scent of steak grounds you, the sizzling of the pan in the kitchen, Rook humming a tune you’ve grown familiar with. That memory was weeks ago- or days, perhaps.

It’s a sliver of comfort, your lighthouse on the wild waters of your relationship, these small domestic moments. As time goes on, the fragrance grows stronger, creating a mouthwatering aroma that reminds you of the emptiness in your stomach. You suck in a deep breath, eager to somehow satiate your hunger; the scent of steak hits your palate, followed by the hypnotic perfume of rosemary mingling with red wine and butter. It's thick, intoxicating, the delirium is enough to make you forget your nausea. By the time Rook deposits a plate in front of you, the basement is as far from your mind as it could be.

His plates are simple milk porcelain with a gold lined rim, because that's how Rook likes things; simple, expensive, delicate. The meat in the middle appears like an open wound on the pristine plate; a ruddy gash in the porcelain, delicately seared and glistening with a bloody sauce. Beyond that, the food smells divine, every ounce as decadent as it looks. Instinctually, your forefinger attempts to uncurl and reach for the golden silverware on either side of the plate, only to stop short with an agonized whine.

"Oh ma chéri," a chiding sigh brushes across your cheek, you just can't help but flinch away. Rook has taken a seat beside you, despite the opposite side of the table being perfectly clear. He's close enough that your shoulders brush. "You simply must quit irritating those, or they'll never heal."

As if it wasn't him who severed your tendons. His thin fingers grab for your wrist, turning it over to inspect the gauze, now freshly dampened with your blood. A sick flush overcomes Rook's face at the sight, stark crimson on clean white- you can tell he's suppressing a smile. Your stomach turns.

"Oh, la vache…" the gentle caress of his thumb against your knuckles brings forth the urge to rip your hand away, you force yourself to deny it. "How dreadful. I suppose I'll have to patch you up after dinner, ce n’est pas la mer à boire."

You asked him what that meant once; ‘it’s not the sea to drink’, or something like it. A bland encouragement to stay collected, despite the torture he’s made you endure, but it works. Maybe the phrase is effective, or maybe you have no choice but to make it so; Rook stands at the lip of a cavern, the lightest brush either way and he’ll send you both careening into the dark. It’s become your career to stand so perfectly still, even as he waltzes on the knife’s edge, desperate to make you follow in his depraved steps like his lovers before.

The screech of wooden chair legs against the floor makes you flinch away, though you’re well aware Rook has become your master and you, his dog. You will only ever walk as far as he allows- recently, he’s decided to keep you kenneled. Your achilles tendon aches as he lifts you from the dining chair like a bride, a belonging, then takes your place in the seat- you find your place on his lap.

For a few heartbeats, you’re lost in the romance of Rook taking the serrated knife to your portion of steak; his arms warm around your shoulders, deft hands cutting away a bite-sized chunk for you to eat. You feel honored that he cares enough to feed you.

“Say, ‘ah’.” There’s a sort of genuine delight in his voice that still feels belittling when he raises the fork to your lips, but your stomach comes before your dignity, and you let Rook put the bite of steak in your mouth.

The flavor melts on your tongue, savory, acidic, rich, everything you’d hoped for- but you’re a few chews deep when you realize something amiss. This does not taste like steak. In every aspect it appears as such; the darkened, almost leathery brown of the exterior, the scent, but its flavor more closely resembles pork. You chew a few more times and swallow, and make the terrible mistake of turning to look at Rook.

“What is-” The words shrivel up and die on your tongue, silenced completely by the bloodcurdling expression on Rook’s face.

There’s a wild, thrilled look in his arsenic-green eyes, something bright and excited that makes your heart still. His smooth, pale skin has been set aflame and the ivory points of his teeth threaten to pierce his bottom lip.

Your mind conjures images of the cream cotton bags, once white but stained with overuse and blotted in red, the fabric stretching at irregular angles to contain whatever Rook had stuffed inside. Buck, or doe, or veal- whatever he would promise with glimmering eyes. You imagine silky blond hair and soft brown eyes, perfect skin and straight teeth. You imagine the basement, the voices you might’ve heard, Rook’s past lovers.

There’s a violent turn in your stomach, so strong your eyes water and you instinctively lift your hands to clasp over your mouth, only drawing more blood from your open wounds- but Rook doesn’t scold you this time. No, he only watches in cruel silence as you dry heave in his lap, running his hands up and down your sides as you scream hard enough to make your parched throat sting.

It’s an arduous ten minutes and sobbing and retching before you reach some sort of calm, reduced to miserable hiccups, lamely attempting to dry your eyes. Somehow, you feel immature for being sickened at the prospect of eating human meat.

“How is it?” The question nearly makes you devolve into sobs all over again, because it’s good- perhaps the most heavenly thing you’ve ever eaten*.*

“It’s…” You can’t make yourself say it. That you crave more, like an addict.

“That good? Mon amour, I’m flattered beyond words.” Strong arms wrap around your waist and pull you back against Rook’s chest, you fight your every instinct and do not pull away, even when something twitches against your ass. “Here.”

Cold dread sinks into your stomach when he cuts you another piece, holding a slice of human to your lips. You tremble in place for a few breaths, refusing to open your mouth, but your body betrays you, as always, growling like a rabid dog for another taste. He taps the fork against your lips once more, and you concede. Rook cuts you bite after bite, you swallow each and every one, the meat is further salted by your unending tears.

By the time you work your way through the entire plate, Rook’s erection presses hot and heavy against your backside, somehow he’s restrained enough not to hump you like an animal; you realize now what you’ve been starving for. Your stomach aches, heavy and bubbling with turmoil; guilt, disgust, betrayal, but it’s soon overshadowed by a chilling numbness.

When Rook brushes a thumb across your split bottom lip, you scarcely stir, your tongue flicking out to wet your dried skin. The crisp rim of a wine glass clanked lightly against your incisors and your thirst flickers to life. Your gaze slides down to the contents of the bowl, a dark burgundy wine so pitch it nearly reaches a shade of black. Fingertips smooth over your jawline, gently tipping your head back to follow the pitch of the wine glass, letting the maroon liquid slide over your lips. It’s thick, coolly oozing down your throat and leaving the taste of pennies heady on your tongue, though you lack the clarity to care. He forces more and more down your throat and you willingly guzzle away, content to slake your thirst with blood, no matter whose, as long as the pain of dehydration disappears. Scarlet blood pools at the corners of your mouth carves a path across your skin, first pooling on your chin before drawing a trail over your throat.

When the glass finally empties you lick your lips and Rook can no longer repress a moan, the nails of his spare hand digging into the softness of your waist so tightly it hurts, sure to leave crescent shaped cuts behind. A trail of open mouthed kisses dances from your shoulder to your cerise stained throat, where Rook takes the liberty of licking what remains of his lost lover from your skin, all the while groaning incoherently- you barely pick up the word ‘obéissant’ amongst his mutterings. A man possessed with his own lust, Rook hastily shoves aside his fine dishware in place of laying you down against the cold wooden dining table- splayed out across the tabletop, haloed by silverware and white plates, now you are the meal.

Your body becomes a canvas, the victim of an artist with red stained hands as he borrows paint from the font in your radial artery, burrowing his smoothed nails into the thin webbing of gauze until your blood squishes around his knuckles and seeps beneath his fingernails. His hips fit perfectly between your legs, the defined points of his bone sliding like blades against the softness of your thighs, sharp and unyielding as you gingerly tuck your legs around him- better to give the wolf a taste now than deny his growling stomach. By God does he savor that ‘taste’. Moans pour from Rook’s lips like life from your veins, oozing around your skin warm, wet and vulnerable, punctuated by his grotesque slurping at your throat. Rook sucks hickies into your neck with such harsh desperation you think he might be trying to draw the blood from your arteries with his lips alone, overlaying plum and claret blotches with the yellowing remains of your last endeavors.

The pale lace and silk Rook has taken the effort to swaddle you in is marred with ruby droplets, round and glittering rhinestones for a moment, before they melded with the smooth fibers of your robe. It would be no effort on Rook’s part to dress you in vibrant shades, something that would hide the rusty stains, but that wouldn’t be half as cathartic. Perhaps more sensual, perhaps more tantalizing; but not nearly as visceral and intimate as peeling open a flower bud, digging his fingers beyond the milky satin petals and revealing the blushing center.

“Oh, mon chéri,” He’s breathless as he gazes down at you, his lips rosy and glistening with a slick mix of blood and spit. “You are beguiling in every element, a blessing upon my unworthy eyes.”

You clench your jaw and avert your eyes.

“I beg of you, s'il te plait mon amour, give me the honor of showing you my passion?” It’s not really a question, Rook’s very presence is so oppressive you’re suffocating in the open air. You feel small beneath him, size notwithstanding.

Truthfully, he does not need you permission either way- it’s a petty ploy to force a word up your throat -his hands would’ve snaked their way beneath your bloomers nonetheless.You’re bare beneath your sleep shorts, as Rook preferred, and with the brush of a warm palm against your soft cock, you’re just as excited as he’d please too.

Experienced fingers gently enclose the head of your cock, rolling your foreskin back to the base, all while Rook keeps his eyes trained on yours, the smallest expression of delight on his face. Though coarse, Rook’s hand felt heavenly wrapped around your dick, the grip delicate and pace agonizing as he began to work you up. It didn’t take long for you grow hard- Rook knew exactly how to make you twitch and squirm -pulling his hand along your shaft before pausing just below the tip, only for his thumb to press harshly against the your slit, drawing a long squeal from your throat.

At long last, Rook drags your shorts from your hips and over your legs, leaving streaks of blood like rivers on your thighs. The chilled air finally meets your warm cock, bringing forth a shudder of discomfort. Rook will choose to interpret this as a show of anticipation. Again, Rook closes his fist around the base of dick, now choosing to stroke you with more fervor, the squelch of precum of blood growing louder and louder with every pump. It’s enough to make your face hot, swapping frantically between rapid panting and holding your breath, if only to deny yourself the shameful satisfaction of letting loose a moan.

“Tell me how this feels, mon amour.” Rook’s eyebrows pinch in a way that almost seems genuine, even as he stills his movements and squeezes the base of your cock tightly; watching a tremor pass through your body, your muscles tightening, eyes fluttering open and shut in quick succession, determined not to grant him a single noise. “Is it good?”

Precum drools from the tip of your cock in a slow, sticky stream, mingling with the tacky blood coating Rook’s hand and coating your length in a thick, marbled mixture of the fluids. It’s sickening, disgusting, and makes your stomach turn slow and dreadful- yet, somehow, the sight makes another bead of precum gather at your tip.

“Or do you need something more, hm?” Rook’s free hand smooths over your inner thigh, knuckles brushing lightly over your balls, his thumb smoothing flat over your taint, before his middle finger finally teases against your rim. “Do you need me in here, ma bichette? Dis juste oui.”

The tip of his finger presses in lightly and you inhale sharply, bringing a small chuckle from Rook’s chest. Your struggles amuse him. Rather than wait for any kind of response, Rook instead encircles your cock with only his forefinger and thumb, pinching them tight enough to make you writhe as he scoops the slurry of blood and precum from your shaft.

For a second, Rook spreads his hand open and watches the sticky webs spread from finger to finger, before he bends down and lets a small exhale hit your dick, suppressing a laugh when your hips jerk in response.

“Ah, si mignon.” The tone is almost dreamy, it would be cute in any other situation, with any other lover. As though to reward your endearing behavior, Rook leans forward and places a kiss on the tip of your cock, forcing a cry of sensitivity from your throat. “Tellement mignon, mon chéri.”

A tiny strand of precum stays stuck on Rook’s bottom lip as he pulls away, only broken when his tongue darts out to lick up what remains- your cock throbs at the sight, so fiercely that you can’t help yourself any longer, a sound somewhere between a wail and a moan makes its way from you before you can even think to stop it. When you calm enough to refocus your attention on Rook, a smile spreads across his face like the plague.

One of his broad hands digs into the fat of your thigh and drags you to the end of the dining table with ease, perfectly aligning your hips with the edge. You’re still reeling from the movement when Rook abruptly pushes two fingers beyond your rim and immediately curls them up into your prostate with cruel force; at the same time, he laves his tongue over the slit of your cock, eagerly swallowing every drop of pre you leak. Your whole body spasms in response to the pleasure, your back arching and legs flailing wildly, a litany of whorish moans falling from your lips- control has not just slipped away from you, the leash has been ripped free of your clenched fists and instead given to Rook. Thick fingers pummel mercilessly against the sensitive bundle of nerves in your ass, punching air from your lungs with every thrust and simultaneously shoving your nearer and nearer to the brink of orgasm- but before you ever reach it, Rook pulls away. His mouth leaves your cock, your hole is left empty once more, and you are left desperate. In a moment of weakness, you almost sit up to beg Rook for more, whine for him to let you cum, before your shame roars back to life. Though you’re laid bare for all to see, Rook is finally rabidly throwing off his clothes, as though any moment without your touch was one of pure agony. In mere seconds, he’s completely nude and readjusting your body as he pleases, tucking a hand under either thigh before guiding them to wrap around his hips. Your eyes are immediately drawn between his legs, where his cock rests against your own, heavy and twitching, the flushed tip glistening with wetness. Lazily- unfairly -Rook squishes the soft head of his dick against your slickened rim, just shy of fulfilling your desires.

“Oh my, regardez ça…” His hips push forward ever so slightly and you let out a puppyish whine, distraught when he retreats again just to watch your hole clench in an effort to pull him back. “You’re just so terribly cute, my dear, so cute.”

The torture feels endless, though he only teases you for a few seconds longer, tapping his cock against your ass one more time before he asks the question that makes your heart go still. “Tell me what you want, mon cheri.”

Your throat closes. You can’t admit that you want- no, need -Rook to fuck you, you need his warmth, the pleasure, the comfort; the same way you need food and water. Still, you can’t say it, not anymore, because Rook will come unraveling like a linen with the lightest tug on his heartstrings. A couple months ago you would’ve happily cried and screamed for Rook to finally shove his dick into you. Now you feared he’d finally break.

You spread your legs wider, arch your back further, whimpering like a stupid animal as you give the weak attempt to rock your hips back into Rook’s cock with teary eyes.

“Ah-ah.” He takes a pace back, moving just barely out of your reach. “Do you want me?”

There’s a quiet thump as you let your head fall back against the tabletop, squeezing your knees around his waist in need.

“Just nod for me, d'accord? That’s all I need, ma bichette.” His hand smooths over your waist, trying to soothe you, but it does nothing to stop the rapid thrumming of your heart.

You heave, too humiliated to meet his eyes, instead throwing your arms over your face and giving the subtlest dip of your head. There’s hardly a second after your approval before Rook’s hands grip your hips so firmly your bones creak under his strength, dragging you back to meet his thrust and sheathe his cock inside you in a single smooth movement. You receive no mercy, no time to adjust, as Rook fucks into you like a feral animal, his movements unrestrained and frenzied, unyielding as you squeal and scream beneath him, legs locked around his hips for a single scrap of stability.

You think- if you can think -that he’s begun muttering something between open-mouthed pants, gasps of how much he loves you, how beautiful you look, how he’d like a taste of you. You let your thoughts scramble with every thrust of his hips, you let go of the fear for a few minutes. It not hard when Rook actively makes an effort to take your breath away, clumsily smashing your lips together in something that could barely be called a kiss; it’s all teeth and tongue, Rook sloppily stuffing his tongue into your mouth with an animalistic grunt- he feels more monster than man to you. Everything about him is suffocating, you can’t breathe around his love, head spinning, vision darkening- at the same time, Rook tilts his hips just right and jams the head of his cock against your prostate, and you’re ready to die for this orgasm. Pain is irrelevant, your weakened hands tangling in Rook’s hair and pulling despite the violent ache in your tendons. The euphoria is incomparable, so sudden and violent you spray cum over both of your chests, your whole body trembling and tightening within Rook’s grasp, milking his cock for all you could with a series of strangled moans Rook is happy to swallow.

Lucidity quickly sets in and you begin to panic, beating your bloodied fists against Rook’s shoulders in a useless attempt to push him away; if Rook wanted you dead, you would die. Your lungs have been set alight with Rook’s passion, parched for the cool touch of oxygen you’re worried may never come. Only once you’re entirely convinced you’re about to die does Rook finally break away and let you breathe, both gasping like you’ve drowned, and still Rook pumps his hips back and forth, chasing his release.

“Tell me- putain -tell me, mon amour,” his words are gasped out against your throat, muffled by your skin. “Tell me you love me, ah, dis moi que tu m'aimes…!”

It’s not a request, it’s a demand, his teeth lock around the thin skin of your esophagus, canines pressing sharply against you. Any answer could end in a crushed windpipe, and you’ve never been good at gambling; but you are his dog, and he is your master. No matter how many times the hand beats, you will return.

“I love you, Rook.” Quick as a flash, Rook readjusts and sinks his teeth into your shoulder, iron filling his mouth in a flood he’s happy to swallow. Rook manages only one more thrust before stilling inside you, shuddering from head to toe with a guttural groan as he fills you with his cum. You’re utterly revolted.

Your wounds have left you in agony. You’re still afraid Rook might rip a chunk from you. You’re sick to your stomach. You might cum all over again. A few stray tears roll over your cheeks, but you suppose this can’t be so bad; your stomach is full and Rook is warm. So warm. You are Rook’s dog, and he is your master. You loosely wrap your arms around his neck. A dog always loves his master.

[bunnys-archive]

Rook NSFW Alphabet

A = Aftercare (What they’re like after sex)

You will NEVER catch a member of Pomefiore lackin when it comes to aftercare. No one is better at pillow talk than Rook Hunt. Too good. Make him stop talking. Seriously, this guy starts talking after you finish and doesn't stop until you fall asleep. Mostly about how well you did, how beautiful you are, certain things you did that he particularly liked. Rook doesn't like baths, so he'll give you a shower instead, but he's still going to pamper you. You won't have to lift a single finger- frankly he won't let you. After a soothing shower that he used as an excuse to worship your body, he'll place you in front of a vanity and tend to you like you're a delicate doll. A hand tucked beneath your knee as he lifts your leg, fingers smoothing over your thigh as he rubs a sweet-scented lotion into your skin, his mutterings becoming muffled through your sleepy haze.

B = Body part (Their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

For Rook to pick a single part of you he loves the most of an impossible task, this boy could go on and on and on about every part of your body down to your fingernails…however…. It's your eyes, definitely. He takes pleasure in seeing every micro expression you make, and your eyes just give it away. Definitely enjoys heavy eye contact during sex.

Rook’s favorite part of himself? Elementary, Watson, it’s his shoulders. Why, you ask? Well for one, his shoulders are very broad and well defined (catch me pushing my dorito-Rook agenda) from all the archery, and they’re still dotted with freckles from all his time in the sun, so he appreciates them aesthetically. However, much more important is the scratches you leave on them; red, raised, sometimes bleeding, nothing pleases him more than the physical evidence of your pleasure on his body.

C = Cum (Anything to do with cum basically… I’m a disgusting person)

So… if you guys know anything about the semen and diet connection, you probably know that a high protein diet results in a very salty and sometimes uh… nasty flavor. We know Rook does a lot of exercise, and protein is a necessary component for building muscle so the first time you swallow for him it's a pretty gross experience. However, with a sustained relationship, Rook will happily change his diet for you so his cum has a bit more of a neutral taste. In terms of texture, he remains well hydrated so it's a bit syrupy and has a nice slightly off-white color. Rook likes cumming both in and on you, every time you fuck, you are sure to end up with cum dripping from your and stuck to your face by the end of the night.

D = Dirty Secret (Pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

He desperately wants to let a couple other men have their way with you and photograph the whole thing. Rook has always enjoyed watching you masturbate, nearly as much as he enjoys bringing you pleasure, this is simply a natural progression of those desires. Ideally, there'd be If he could truly have his way, he'd film everything, then make you watch it back while he fucks you; the whole time commenting on little things you do that drive him crazy and attempting to recreate what happened in the video. Honestly, Rook is so up front about what he wants that is hardly a secret

E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

His experience is middling. I believe Rook has probably had 3-4 relationships, but none of them lasted longer than a year (he was a bit too obsessive and his partners were put off). He's fairly experienced, but also knows that it's important to learn the intricacies of every person he's with, and not everything he knows will work instantly. Rook will approach every session like a learning experience, exploring new places and techniques to make sure he can find all the little spots that drive you crazy- and once he does, God knows he's going to abuse the fuck outta them. Also his first time was in the woods, thanks

F = Favorite Position (This goes without saying)

Before I start, I'm drawing a firm line; Rook Hunt does not like doggy style- or anything where he can't see your face! He firmly believes that any position where he can't see your beauty is a waste of his time. So of course he likes missionary and the mating press, but his real favorites require some extra supplies. Namely a mirror. If Rook is feeling rough, he'll shove you right up against the mirror and take you from behind; but usually he prefers to have you settled on his lap, one arm hooked beneath your leg to lift it up to your shoulder as he fucks you. He likes having the free hand to tease you with (:

Now, I know everybody likes big dom Rook but he's a switch okay guys. The seeing your face rule sticks for even when he bottoms, he needs to see you constantly. Honestly missionary has to take number one for him, but he's also real fond of being tied to the bed, it gives him no choice but to admire you as you work.

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc)

Usually if there's laughter in the bedroom, it's just Rook teasing you a bit, but that doesn't mean he's no fun! Having a partner you can laugh with is valuable to Rook, so if something happens while you're fucking it out, he won't be afraid to giggle a little, maybe poke a bit of fun at you, then rather easily slip right back into sexy times.

H = Hair (How well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.)

He's part of Pomefiore, did you think this man was anything but well-shaved? Frankly, his pubic hair is beautiful, somehow princely?? It's fine and light, but very soft and incredibly well trimmed- not to mention always clean, and never smells like ball sweat. He can't manage to grow a happy trail, just a tiny little path that starts beneath the waistband of his pants and ends in a small tuft at the base of his dick. Otherwise, he's completely shaved down there, smooth balls and not even ass hair.

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect…)

Painfully so. Rook will be intimate with whomever he chooses to bed, fuck buddies, one night stand or long term lover, it’s just in his nature. He has a knack for making your feel like the most gorgeous, lovable person on the planet while you two have sex- it’s something in the way he holds you, unabashedly keeping his eyes on your face the entire time he presses kisses against your neck between proclamations of your beauty, checking in and focusing wholly on how you feel. Your pleasure is his, afterall. Never, not even once, will you get the impression that Rook isn’t madly in love with you.

J = Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon)

A lot. Once a day, maybe more, if we're all honest with ourselves. Rook is a man who loves indulging his senses-  He's got a high libido and he uses his own orgasm as an energy boost, which is enough to make a horny man, but he's also incredibly easy to rile up. He fully indulges the pleasure of masturbation, his favorite places to do so being your bed and outside. Rook really draws out the process; starting with gloves on, letting the leather get slick from his own precum as he slowly strokes up and down the length, squeezing around the tip just for a bit of extra pressure. Eventually, he'll pull the glove off and touch himself a bit more fervently, by now he's getting noisier, letting slip soft calls of your name, whimpering as he rocks his hips into his hand. Rook only whacks it while thinking about or looking at pictures of you, after all, you're the most beautiful thing in the world, what else would he touch himself to?

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks):

Voyeurism: I think we could all see this coming. The stalker, a voyeur?! Shocking. He prefers when you don't know he's watching you (he'll  receive consent beforehand don't worry boo-boo), something about the thrill of getting caught makes blood rush to his dick. Please let him take photos though

Photography/filming: Master of the nude.Sending you nudes, receiving nudes, whatever it is, Rook likes it. Rook’s nudes are downright artful. The lighting and angles are always perfect, even at night, and he never fails to look beautiful. Rook is the king of the post work-out gym bathroom photo; standing before the mirror with the hem of his shirt between his teeth. He likes to record when he's fucking you too, just so he can watch it throughout his day as a sort of pick me up. He's also fond of some good photos after sex when you're an absolute mess, expect for him to gush over them in your presence

Exhibitionism: this goes well with the voyeurism kink, one of his greatest fantasies would be watching you have sex with another person, then get caught jerking off to you two

Mirror sex: Tenfold if you're self-conscious, he makes your anxiety his pet project. To Rook Hunt, there is nothing sexier than sitting you in lap, legs spread, forced to watch yourself while he fucks you to stupidity. Not to mention, he gets the best view of your body.

Marking: Take a shot every time you read beautiful- but really, he thinks you look beautiful covered in little rose and violet hickies. A painting of his conception, an empty canvas covered in his marks. If you cover them with makeup he'll sneakily wipe it away every time you see each other that day.

Dacryphilia: there's nothing that makes his pride swell more than bringing you to pleasured tears. Of course, Rook isn't the type to enjoy your pain, he'll never want to see you cry because you're scared or hurt, but if it's because you're overwhelmed? Then he's happy to make you cry even harder.

Praise: Again, a guy who cannot stop talking, specifically about you. It's even worse if you're self-conscious; he'll make you sit in front of a mirror, on his lap and guide you through every part of your body and why he loves it, and you. Oh and of course Rook does the standard encouragement. Murmuring sweet things as he slowly pushes into you; "good job, you're taking me so well" or "deep breaths, darling, I'm almost all the way in". And when you're close to cumming; "ah- you're close, aren't you? Go on, cum for me, you can do it"

Body worship: I feel like this one is obvious. He loves everything about you, he finds every inch positively beautiful. If Rook wasn't so hopelessly horny for you, he'd do nothing but kiss every part of your body up and down. But alas. Horny.

Predator/Prey: must I even elaborate? Man is literally a hunter. However, Rook prefers a long con; stalking you throughout the day, appearing here and there, then finally striking when you're all alone. What he really likes is watching you get nervous and fidgety before you finally break and run away from him, so Rook can chase after you. In the end it'll probably end up with you two wrestling and he's absolutely okay with however it turns out- win or lose

Overstimulation: this is on pleasure dom Rook!!! All Rook really wants to do is make you feel good as much as possible, even if that leaves you twitching and crying because you've cum 6 times in a row.

Masochism: PAINSLUT ROOK!!! Rook likes everything you give him, and if what you give him happens to be pain? So be it, lay it on, baby. Nails scratching down his back, biting, hitting- just anything

Bondage: something about being physically tied down makes him feel like a hunted animal, like you two have been fighting back and this is the result of his failure. Rook, the perfect hunter, lines to feel like he's been defeated once in a while, it keeps things fresh!

Impact play: This is for bottom Rook for sure, but please spank him, slap him, whip him. You could slap Rook across the face and he'd get hard. I'm not even kidding. He's particularly fond of riding crops, especially on the inside of his thighs or across his back

Knife play: cut him. Do it. Do it. Do it. Being roughed up makes Rook feel satisfied, bruising, bleeding. And yeah he'd absolutely be okay with branding- if you're in a long term relationship. Cut your name into his thigh, he wants it

Blood play: Rook finds the look of blood against skin striking and gorgeous, he's not inclined to hurt you unless you ask, you can draw blood from him however you like. Hitting him til he gets a bloody nose? Hot. Biting him til he bleeds? Hot. Cutting him up? Hot.

Somnophilia: Rook is nasty okay. His stalker tendencies and love of vulnerability have made a monster, and if you'd let him, Rook would love to sneak in your room and fuck you while you're fast sleep

Guided/mutual masturbation: tell me that Rook wouldn't make you sit on his lap while you jerk off, you can't. Sat in front of a mirror, guiding you through every move so he can watch you write and get his lap all wet. Ahhh he's so cute

L = Location (Favorite places to do the do)

If you're okay fucking somewhere, so is Rook. If you let him, Rook would fuck you in front of anyone and everyone, this is NOT hyperbole. While the preference isn't strong, I think Rook probably prefers to have sex in public places that anyone could walk into; living room, kitchen, the counter of a public bathroom- of course the woods is a classic. The risk of being caught gives him a thrill that the bedroom just can't do!

M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)

It's the little things with Rook; how your neck looks when you turn your head, the little way you jump when he sneaks up behind you, how it feels when he can overpower you. Generally, Rook likes seeing you vulnerable, that's part of the reason he enjoys stalking so much.

N = NO (Something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Genuinely this was so hard to think of, but Rook won't treat you like trash. I know some of us like mean, cruel men, but Rook won't do it, he refuses to mar your beauty or tell lies about his feelings towards you. One of Rook's defining traits is unwavering, brutal honesty, so chances are Rook will never degrade you- he just cares too much. Doesn't mean you can't degrade him though-

O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc)

Giving, for sure. He likes seeing the cute faces you make while sucking him off, sure, but he thinks the noises you make while he's tongue fucking you are much better. If Rook is going to give you, head you're going to ride his face though- it's the best position! Sitting on Rook's face means A) he can see all your facial expressions and B) you can quite easily make him do whatever you want, which sounds lovely to him

P = Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.)

Honestly Rook will move at whatever pace you like but let's forget about that for a minute. Rook naturally wants to start out slow and sensual, dragging his cock along your walls, making sure to hit all your sensitive spots with each thrust in and out. As he goes along, Rook gets more excited and his thrusts pick up speed, turning a bit more rough and shallow until he's finally cumming. When Rook cums, he goes still while he's fully inside you, shuddering and moaning as he fills you up. He's got a habit for biting when he cums, like an animal sinking his teeth in to make sure you stay there while he finishes.

Now, I'll elaborate on quick rounds with Rook because they're a bit different. If you need to be fast, or if Rook is so horny he's gone feral, the word "slow" exits his dictionary. His thrusts start and stay hard, fast, and deep, it really gets across the desperation he feels good you, how cute 🫶

Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.)

Absolutely! Rook has no problems with a little pick-me-up sex, something to just satisfy your needs and move on. Of course, he prefers to draw out sex, but also takes a good amount of pleasure in tearing as many orgasms from you as fast as he can before sending you on your way, weak-kneed and sweating. I like to think Rook keeps a vibrator on him just got this sort of occasion

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.)

Are you kidding me rn. Rook is the risk man, the only ones fighting him for this position are the tweels, and it's real close. Rook could approach you with something new to try every single week, and if you're the one to ask for experimenting, it's highly unlikely Rook will never say no. Maybe to like… vomit? Any way you slice it, Rook if freaky deaky and pulling you along with it

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last…)

We all know Rook is athletic, baby!! I give it six rounds before Rook gets a bit too overstimulated and needs to give his dick a break before it turns purple, but he's happy to go on pleasuring you while he gets a little rest- but chances are you're exhausted by then too. How long each round lasts really depends on what you're doing, but he can last around 25-35 minutes before- not including any foreplay -so it'll really be up to you to keep up

T = Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)

This country boy is mostly an acoustics only partner. It's not that he's against toys, there's just nothing he's particularly interested in using on you. I believe Rook owns a good ol wand vibrator that he uses on you during guided/mutual masturbation, just because he appreciates how squirmy and whiny you get when he presses the toy against your sensitive spots.

But if you're using toys on him oh well… that is a different story. I think he mostly prefers good ol 'weiner up his ass, but Rook is real fond of a good vibrating cock ring and a few bullet vibes- taped to his nipples or the base of his cock. He also likes nipple clamps, ball gags, blind folds, riding crops, and basic whips.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

You'll be shocked but Rook mostly likes to play things fair, he'll tease a little but Rook is straightforward. If Rook wants to fuck you, he'll just come out and ask, no need for any roundabout games! When it comes to actually having sex, Rook wants to make you feel good, he's not going to delay making you cum your brains out!

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make)

Rook Hunt is for sure the noisiest man you’ve ever met. Not that he’s a screamer, moreso, he will not stop talking. We all know he can go on for hours about things he’s passionate about, but he’ll hardly let you get a word in edgewise, he’s too busy going on and on babbling about how gorgeous you are, how good you feel, praising how well you’re doing, murmuring sweet nothings- proud member and president of the “can’t shut the fuck up” club. Of course, you’ll get some good, loud moans from him too (usually interrupting his endless chatter). Rook is more of a moan guy than a grunt guy, it comes out high and is usually accompanied with a shudder and pleased sigh.

W = Wild Card (Get a random headcanon for the character of your choice)

Sounding. This is WILD but Rook likes wild, and he would absolutely be 1000% be down for sounding, in fact he's the one who brought it up. He's already done research, he's already bought toys- come babe, keep up, get the rod in his dickhole already!! (Also I think he has piercing nipples, they're just basic golden studs, but they look cute on him)

X = X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants, picture or words)

Rook is rocking long but kinda skinny. He's around 5.5 inches in flaccid, getting up to an even 7 when he's fully hard- man is a major league grower. As I said, a bit on the skinny side and no prominent veins, but his tip is a lovely cute pink and he gets so twitchy and leaky when he's hard. I'm not sure he has a dick piercing, just because he's a bit worried about the healing interrupting his sex life or exercise, but Rook has thought about getting a piercing or two- guiche or prince Albert I think

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

Turning on Rook is like turning on a light switch; you only need one good slap and you could do it with your eyes closed. You could breathe too close to him and Rook would get hard. Rook would fuck you every single day, multiple times a day if you let him. He's not afraid to ask you- or send videos of himself masturbating to the thought of you! Mwah enjoy the teasing babe

Z = ZZZ (… how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

It really depends on whether or not he tops, honestly. In terms of topping? Rook could never sleep after sex, it makes him energized! For this reason, Rook actually prefers not to have sex after dark, morning or midday sex works out better for him. After a good round or two, sometimes Rook will go straight into a workout.

Bottom Rook, though? He still feels refreshed but he's more likely to just settle down for a little while and chill out. He likes to lay back with you and blab on about whatever comes to mind- Rook low-key the king of pillow talk, he could give a 5 page essay debrief on your sex life.

[bunnys-archive]

Trey NSFW Alphabet

A = Aftercare (What they’re like after sex)

AFTERCARE KING!!!! Trey prepares what you’ll need after sex beforehand, like in a little first aid kit by the bed. There’s a washcloth in there, granola bars, water, disinfectant wipes, bandaids- you name what you need and he’ll have it. That doesn’t mean he isn’t romantic either! Trey will press little kisses anywhere he paid extra attention to during your “session”, tell you how well you did and how pretty you are. Overall, Trey is quick, but thorough! Doing everything that needs to be done so you can both get some rest; he’s just the perfect man

B = Body part (Their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

I feel like Trey is partial to necks? Weird but hear me out. I don’t think he’d mind a total door of a partner, but he likes a nice, shapely neck! Perfect for biting, tucking his head into while cuddling, tracing while yall fuck-

For his own body? Probably hands. I think his hands are big and his fingers are thick, and he just loves how they look on your body. He’s fairly strong so he can easily leave hand shaped bruises while gripping your hips, and can finger-fuck you brainless without breaking a sweat. Trey definitely considers his hands his greatest assets

C = Cum (Anything to do with cum basically… I’m a disgusting person)

Trey. Is. Well. Hydrated! His cum isn’t watery per say, but you’re not about to be chugging toxic sludge with him- think glaze, yes this is intentional. His diet is pretty good (besides all the sweets), but he very genuinely offers to use Doodle Suit to make his cum taste better. I think he cums a fair amount? Not a bucketloads, but also not sad little piddles. Trey prefers to his cum on your body rather than in your body, so he’ll usually pull out and cum on your stomach or even your mouth- bastard will even cum in a condom, yank it off and then empty the contents into your mouth

D = Dirty Secret (Pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Would love to fuck you in semi-public places; kitchens, bathrooms, libraries. The risk of getting caught is something he gets off on, and the idea of teasing you for being too noisy has blood rushing to his dick- he’s scared to tell you though, because he doesn’t wanna freak you out

E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

Experienced? No. He’s too busy, honestly. I think Trey’s messed around a bit, a handy here, some dry humping there, but he has definitely not gone all the way; I think he’s a bit traditional in that he’d like his first time to be special

F = Favorite Position (This goes without saying)

Trey prefers being able to see your face, so he prefers the mating press; he likes to show off his strength by pinning your legs up high, and feels like he can get really deep in this position. I think he’d like a full nelson once in a while, but only if he can get you in front of a mirror

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc)

Trey definitely sees sex and a fun and intimate way to bond with his partner, so there’s room for humor! He’s not usually the type to crack jokes, but if you say or do something funny, he’ll pause and laugh a little bit too

H = Hair (How well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.)

Carpet does indeed match the grassy looking drapes (insert “mowing the lawn” joke here). He’s not the type of guy to be hairless down there, but he keeps it short, clean and well groomed. He’s got a happy trail, but regularly shaves it off- TELL HIM TO STOP!!!

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect…)

While Trey doesn’t get overly sappy during sex, he does have moments where he absolutely melts for you and it shows very very clearly. He’ll press even closer to you, murmur sweet things to you and place a few new hickies on your skin

J = Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon)

His libido isn’t crazy, so I don’t think he’s super into masturbating; but every now and then (I say every 1-2 weeks) he gets the urge and decides to rub one out. He’ll take it slow and really try to enjoy himself, rather than just get his rocks off and get over with it- however this is all before you’re dating, afterwards is a bit of a different story. Trey gets needier after you enter a relationship, so his once every two weeks turns into 3 times a week if you guys are regularly fucking, and more if you aren’t

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks)

Size difference: He likes feeling like the strong, dominant one in the bedroom, having a partner he can manhandle makes him feel good

Mild Exhibitionism: Trey likes showing off, simple as that. His more teasing and dominant side comes out in the bedroom, so having people stumble in on him fucking his beautiful partner makes him embarrassed, yes, but also kinda extra horny

Edging: Mans. Is. A. Tease. And I won’t hear otherwise! He needs control over things and your orgasm is one of them

Mild Stuffing: Wait let me explain- Trey is particularly into the act of feeding you, specifically by hand, less about the after-effects of eating. Again, this is a control thing, this guy is a micromanager in my heart

Mild Degradation: His degradation always comes with an overly-sweet tone that makes you feel small, have some sample phrases; “Oh? You got really loud when I hit riiiight here. Oh oh, that feels good, doesn’t it?” “Who knew you could be so slutty, huh babe?” “Hush, you have to be quieter or the rest of the dorm will know you’re a whore.”

Praise: Giving, receiving, Trey likes praise! He loves you and he wants you to know he loves you! Extra points if you praise him too, he feels underappreciated at times

Cum Eating: Trust me when I say that you will be clean after sex with Trey. He doesn’t let a single drop go to waste, and he won’t let you waste any of his cum either. Finish your food (:

L = Location (Favorite places to do the do)

Classrooms after school, specifically right on your desk. He likes the mild risk of fucking you in a public area after everyone is meant to be gone, and the idea that you’ll think of him plowing your brains out everytime you sit there warms his heart… and his cock-

M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)

Facial expressions!!! Definitely!!! He likes the faces you make when he thrusts right into a sensitive spot, or the disappointed look when he edges you all over again, it’s his favorite part of sex

N = NO (Something they wouldn't do, turn offs)

Food play. Everyone decides this is the number 1 Trey kink, but I say nay! I think baking and food in general remind him too much of his family, and therefore trying food play makes him think of his siblings which is a total boner killer

O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc)

Trey definitely prefers giving to receiving oral- he’s bad at thinking of his own needs. He loves giving head tho, it’s the perfect way to edge you and eat your cum at the same time! Not to mention the faces you make when he does something juuuust right. However, he does like cumming on your face and watching you swallow his cum!

P = Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.)

I think Trey always starts with a moderate pace so he can focus on making deeper thrusts and hitting all your sensitive spots, then goes rougher and faster when he gets close to cumming - but he has a tendency to slow down when he feels more emotional and intimate

Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.)

Trey doesn’t love quickies, he prefers to take his time to really play with you, but if you’re having sex in a semi-public area, he understands the necessity of ripping his pants off and gettin ‘er done. That being said, a quickie usually leads to him taking you home for a longer, more satisfying session.

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.)

Open to experiments! Obviously there are some things he’ll probably say no to (bodily fluids and really harming you), but if you want it, he’ll try it! He’s not the type to spring something new on you in the middle of sex, he much prefers talking it out beforehand. And yes, I will answer the age old question: can you peg him? Yes. He’s not going to suggest it first, as it’s not something he’s particularly interested in, but he’ll try it, and actually ends up enjoying it!

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last…)

He’s a one and done kind of guy; after cumming once, he can get overstimulated very easily and Trey is not down for the pain entailed. However, he makes that single round last; does not skimp on foreplay in the slightest and always makes sure you’ve cum at least once before he starts thinking about his own pleasure

T = Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)

Trey isn’t huge on toys- it’s a little bit silly, but he kind of gets jealous of your dildo. Isn’t he enough?? You don’t need that, you have him. However, he does see the use of a simple bullet vibrator; running it up and down your cock or pressing it to your clit while he fucks you and making you squirm juuuuuust right.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Big tease. Massive tease. HUMONGOUS tease. Trey likes when you ask him for sex, even when he’s the one who’s feeling it; and he’s going to make this your problem. He knows all the subtle little ways to get you hot and bothered, a brush near your thighs here, and a whisper in your ear there- he’s far more manipulative than he lets on! Eventually you’re so worked up from his teasing that you go running to Trey, then he has the audacity to call you needy! The nerve.

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make)

Trey mostly pants and grunts during sex, an occasional moan slipping out; but if you can talk your way into giving him the suck? He gets much much noisier, moaning and gasping and even whining, ugh, it’s beautiful.

W = Wild Card (Get a random headcanon for the character of your choice)

Kind of fantasizes about you as a househusband/wife. Regularly gets off on imagining himself coming home from work, and fucking your brains out in the kitchen while you try to cook. Something about the domesticity gets him so riled up, and he’s desperate to roleplay it with you, but too embarrassed to ask.

X = X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants, picture or words)

I give him 6.5 inches flaccid and 7 when he’s hard, medium girth. Honestly, his dick is a bit pretty, I think it’s got a little freckle at the base and his tip is a nice peachy-pink that goes very red when he’s close.

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

While initially pretty low, his libido goes waaaaaaaaaaay up after you start dating; he’ll be wanting it at least twice a week, if not a couple rounds more- not that he’s going to ask you directly, if he can avoid it. Trey prefers to feel needed, rather than needy, and while he’s fully capable of asking you for sex when he really wants it, more often than not he’s going to wait for you to ask

Z = ZZZ (… how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Trey has a good amount of time before he knocks out after sex, usually managing to clean you up and get a good shower in before he decides to go to sleep. However, if you’ve both gone for an especially taxing round, there’s a chance he’ll just flop down on top of you and decide to do it later.

[bunnys-archive]

Idia NSFW Alphabet

A = Aftercare (What they’re like after sex)

By the end of the night, Idia is a wreck- highly likely you're doing the aftercare babes. The best you'll get from him is some cuddles and kisses before he conks out.

B = Body part (Their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Hands. Soft hands, rough hands, big hands, small hands, skinny hands- Idia just looooves hands. Idia likes how it feels when you run your hands over his skin, the way they feel in his hair, on his cock. He always thinks your hands look pretty, no matter what they’re doing.

Honestly, Idia isn’t sure he likes anything about himself; but at the very least, he has a love-hate relationship with his skin. Obviously he’s very pale, and he bruises very easily; on one hand he likes having your marks on him, on the other it’s very embarrassing that hickies show up like highlighter on his papery skin.

C = Cum (Anything to do with cum basically… I’m a disgusting person)

Geeze. Sorry Idia lovers but his diet isn’t very good and he definitely doesn’t drink a lot of water; it’s not tasty, pretty bitter, and thicker than syrup. The moment you start fucking he tries to change his diet and drinks more water- he feels very very bad about the texture and taste of his cum. Don’t tell him how you feel about it, he’ll shrivel up and die with shame. He doesn’t cum very much, only a couple little spurts- honestly it’s kinda cute.

D = Dirty Secret (Pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Do I even have to explain this one? It’s hentai- or more accurately, hentai, doujins and smutty fanfiction. Yeah, I’m projecting, what of it? He keeps a spank bank hidden deep on his pc full of his “material”, and he buries it even deeper when you two start getting it on. What’s his favorite genre you ask? Ohh well, sex pollen, tentacles, fucking machines. If you ever find it, he’d be mortified.

E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

EXPERIENCE?! IDIA???? Very funny babe, this man’s only experience is his fleshlight. Chances are he’s kissed more frogs than people, and don’t even get me started on sex. You’re going to have to guide this hot mess through every single step, buckle in baby.

F = Favorite Position (This goes without saying. Will probably include a visual)

There’s two! If you’re pegging him (yeah I’m bringing it up this early), he prefers doggy style; this way he can muffle his noises and hide his face pretty easily, bonus: your strap/cock almost always hits his prostate at that angle. Now, if he’s the one putting it in you, he likes the cowgirl position, this way he can put his hands all over you and watch your expression all while doing very little work. Most of all, Idia prefers positions where he can stay still and just take whatever you do to him, pillow prince vibes for him.

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc)

Not at ALL. If you make a joke during sex, chances are Idia won’t even catch it because he’s too deep in the moment. God forbid you laugh about something, Idia’s delicate pride will be injured forever. He’ll need to stop immediately so you can reassure him that you still find attractive and no, you weren’t laughing at him- even then he’ll still need to stop for the night to reassure himself.

H = Hair (How well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.)

Alright sports fans, this is the one you've all been waiting for… yes he's got little fiery pubes! I think he's got a happy trail, and he's the type to not shave so don't worry about it disappearing. Like I said, he doesn't really shave, but if you two are regularly fucking, he'll trim and clean it regularly.

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect…)

Idia is a very very insecure man, he needs lots of reassurance and care. Maybe it's not all intimate, but there's never a moment that you think Idia doesn't love you. When he gets really needy, he'll pull you closer and bury his face into your neck, whimpering right into your ear.

J = Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon)

Man is horny. Hooooooorny. I'd say he jerks off at least once a day, with or without you guys regularly fucking. Idia is basically always in his room and on the internet, so if he feels the need he'll just pull up some good ol porn. The way Idia masturbates is almost frantic, humping into his own hand and whimpering- he's wayyyy too loud. The only obstacle is that he has to shoo Ortho out of the room to go do something else.

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks)

Praise: Is this really surprising to anyone? Idia is a delicate man, getting praised for anything makes him a little bit squirmy, but hearing it from you? He can't manage to say anything to you during the act, but his favorite thing to hear is "good boy".

Hair pulling: Idia's got a lot of hair! It's easy to wrap your hand in it and yank hard, earning a cute little moan from him. Use his hair as a handle while you fuck him from behind please (:

Choking: Listen. Grab Idia by the throat. His eyes roll back and he drools all over himself- if you choke him out before you get started, it'll get him brick hard in a second.

Bondage: guy is a rope bunny. A lot of his kinks are about giving up control, considering Idia has played adult a lot of his life, and bondage is the number one way to give up control.

Blindfolds: Again, blindfolds are a great way to take away control and Idia likes being a little surprised by what you're doing!

Overstimulation: Idia loves when you make him cum so much it hurts, so much he goes stupid, so cute ((:

Dumbification: We all know Idia is anxious, and a sex is a great way to turn off his brain! He's heard that he's smart all his life, tell him he's a good, dumb boy and he'll melt into a little puddle of cum

L = Location (Favorite places to do the do)

BEDROOM. Sorry freaks, you cannot take this guy outside; he'll be way way way too freaked out to stay or get hard. Don't put him through this.

M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)

Praaaaise. Kill me for being repetitive, but Idia is most motivated by your words of praise! No matter the position, Idia is mostly here to serve you. He wants to hear how good he's making you feel, and how good he's being!

N = NO (Something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Idia is incredibly turned off by degradation. Mental illness does enough of that for him, and even if you claim that your harsh words don't reflect your true thoughts, Idia just can't shake it off; it eats him up at all hours. In the end, degradation would really just erode your relationship.

O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc)

Idia is giving pillow prince. For one, his big sharp teeth make it awfully hard to give head without shish-kebabing your bits, most people don't wanna risk that and especially not Idia. Second, Idia just makes the prettiest noises while you suck him off, why would you wanna do anything else? He drools and wails and nearly sobs like you're sucking the soul out of him- it's a sight to behold.

P = Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.)

If Idia is the one setting the pace, you'll have to get used to his somewhat erratic thrusts. He goes rough and fast in short bursts, then slows to a crawl- he's not trying to be a tease! He just gets overwhelmed so quickly…

Now, if you're the one doing the work, you'll quickly find that Idia prefers to start slower, then work up to a much faster pace- go too hard too soon and he'll cum early, and that's just embarrassing! Well, for him anyway

Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.)

Idia is horny with a capital H, so he won't mind a good quickie! Never expect it outside the comfort of your own home, however, if you get needy out in public that's between you, your right hand and the nearest bathroom.

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.)

I think Idia is rather open to experiment? As I said, he's low on experience and reads some kinky material, so he's likely to try anything once as long as they don't violate the three Ps (Public Places and Piss)

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last…)

Idia is here for a good time, not a long time. Sort of. To be clear, Idia is very sensitive and he's not going to last very long, but! He can go many rounds. Each round might be about 20-45 minutes, but he can manage at least 5 before he gets overstimulated, and even then, he's happy to keep going.

T = Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)

Before you two were a couple, Idia already owned a couple of toys, notably: a pocket pussy, and a butt plug he got to experiment with, but has been too scared to use. However, with some gentle nudging, you can get him to expand his tastes! Idia might not enjoy using toys on you, he's never quite sure what to do, but pleeeease use toys on him. His favorite combination is a 6-inch, studded vibrating dildo and a vibrating cock ring, drives him absolutely crazy.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Not at all, really? He's a bit too eager for that, he wants what he wants, and for the most part, Idia does not want to delay getting dicked down.

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make)

So loud. Gag Idia Shroud for the sake of your neighbors and eardrums. The man while whine and whimper while you suck him off, he moans so loud while you fuck him. Idia finds it humiliating and tries to stay quiet, but he's just so sensitive

W = Wild Card (Get a random headcanon for the character of your choice)

Idia cannot manage to take a single flattering nude, sorry guys ¯⁠\⁠_⁠(⁠ツ⁠)⁠_⁠/⁠¯ I think he somehow always makes his dick look scared in his photos

X = X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants, picture or words)

7 inches, don't think there's much of a size difference from when he's soft or hard. His dick is veeeeery pale, with an almost mauve-ish tip; no birthmarks or anything, but really prominent veins. #1 member of the leaky cock gang, he gets wet very fast and very easily.

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

Idia is incredibly horny, and getting together only makes him Worse™. He'll probably hit you with a "u up?" At least twice a week, if not more. However, Idia gets very anxious about seeming needy and puts off asking you until like midnight.

Z = ZZZ (… how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Pretty quickly, I think? Idia will knock out pretty quickly after you two finish up, he's not much of a physical activity guy. He does like some pillow talk after sex- mostly you reassuring him that he did well, that you enjoyed everything and that you still want him; but that's only going to last five minutes before he falls asleep. Clean up can happen in the morning!!

[bunnys-archive]

Skinship

Rated PG, view with caution!

Lucifer doesn’t like when you pick at yourself like that, so he’ll do what he can to assuage your worries. (Ep. 2)

Featuring: Lucifer and You!

Beware! This film contains: light angst, gn! reader, skin picking, light blood, self harm warning? It’s not very bad, but still

Soundtrack: Paul by Big Thief, covered by Cavetown

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SPEAK UP!

Rated E, for EVERYONE!

A short film surrounding our main cast as they attempt to befriend YOU- the skittish and silent object of their affections! Sit back, relax, and enjoy the show.

Featuring: Trey Clover, Leona Kingscholar, Floyd Leech, and YOU!

Beware! This film contains: mostly fluff, love confessions (kinda), reader doesn’t like talking, Leona is ooc if you’re a woman, also Leona’s kinda a douche but he gets better, playful biting I bet you can guess from who, Trey’s blurb is way longer than everyone else’s, gn! reader

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This is How to Fall in Love With Me! (Pt. 1)

Rated E, for EVERYONE!

A short film detailing how our cast acts when they’re in love with you, with a little confession at the end!

Featuring: Riddle Rosehearts, Trey Clover, Cater Diamond, and you, dear viewer

Beware! This film contains: fluff mostly, most of these are probably ooc because I haven’t even played ch 1 of twst, accidental Cater favoritism?, tiny bit of angst in Cater’s, a miniscule bit of spice in Trey’s

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NSFW Alphabet: Trey Clover!

Rated R, for EXPLICIT CONTENT!

A short script covering the ABCs of Trey Clover's sex life!

Featuring: Trey Clover, and you!

Beware! This film contains: sexual content obviously, mentions of size kinks, mild stuffing, mild degradation, praise, cum eating and mild exhibitionism, gender neutral reader

A = Aftercare (What they’re like after sex)

AFTERCARE KING!!!! Trey prepares what you’ll need after sex beforehand, like in a little first aid kit by the bed. There’s a washcloth in there, granola bars, water, disinfectant wipes, bandaids- you name what you need and he’ll have it. That doesn’t mean he isn’t romantic either! Trey will press little kisses anywhere he paid extra attention to during your “session”, tell you how well you did and how pretty you are. Overall, Trey is quick, but thorough! Doing everything that needs to be done so you can both get some rest; he’s just the perfect man

B = Body part (Their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

I feel like Trey is partial to necks? Weird but hear me out. I don’t think he’d mind a total door of a partner, but he likes a nice, shapely neck! Perfect for biting, tucking his head into while cuddling, tracing while yall fuck-

For his own body? Probably hands. I think his hands are big and his fingers are thick, and he just loves how they look on your body. He’s fairly strong so he can easily leave hand shaped bruises while gripping your hips, and can finger-fuck you brainless without breaking a sweat. Trey definitely considers his hands his greatest assets

C = Cum (Anything to do with cum basically… I’m a disgusting person)

Trey. Is. Well. Hydrated! His cum isn’t watery per say, but you’re not about to be chugging toxic sludge with him- think glaze, yes this is intentional. His diet is pretty good (besides all the sweets), but he very genuinely offers to use Doodle Suit to make his cum taste better. I think he cums a fair amount? Not a bucketloads, but also not sad little piddles. Trey prefers to his cum on your body rather than in your body, so he’ll usually pull out and cum on your stomach or even your mouth- bastard will even cum in a condom, yank it off and then empty the contents into your mouth

D = Dirty Secret (Pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Would love to fuck you in semi-public places; kitchens, bathrooms, libraries. The risk of getting caught is something he gets off on, and the idea of teasing you for being too noisy has blood rushing to his dick- he’s scared to tell you though, because he doesn’t wanna freak you out

E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

Experienced? No. He’s too busy, honestly. I think Trey’s messed around a bit, a handy here, some dry humping there, but he has definitely not gone all the way; I think he’s a bit traditional in that he’d like his first time to be special

F = Favorite Position (This goes without saying)

Trey prefers being able to see your face, so he prefers the mating press; he likes to show off his strength by pinning your legs up high, and feels like he can get really deep in this position. I think he’d like a full nelson once in a while, but only if he can get you in front of a mirror

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc)

Trey definitely sees sex and a fun and intimate way to bond with his partner, so there’s room for humor! He’s not usually the type to crack jokes, but if you say or do something funny, he’ll pause and laugh a little bit too

H = Hair (How well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.)

Carpet does indeed match the grassy looking drapes (insert “mowing the lawn” joke here). He’s not the type of guy to be hairless down there, but he keeps it short, clean and well groomed. He’s got a happy trail, but regularly shaves it off- TELL HIM TO STOP!!!

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect…)

While Trey doesn’t get overly sappy during sex, he does have moments where he absolutely melts for you and it shows very very clearly. He’ll press even closer to you, murmur sweet things to you and place a few new hickies on your skin

J = Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon)

His libido isn’t crazy, so I don’t think he’s super into masturbating; but every now and then (I say every 1-2 weeks) he gets the urge and decides to rub one out. He’ll take it slow and really try to enjoy himself, rather than just get his rocks off and get over with it- however this is all before you’re dating, afterwards is a bit of a different story. Trey gets needier after you enter a relationship, so his once every two weeks turns into 3 times a week if you guys are regularly fucking, and more if you aren’t

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks)

Size difference: He likes feeling like the strong, dominant one in the bedroom, having a partner he can manhandle makes him feel good

Mild Exhibitionism: Trey likes showing off, simple as that. His more teasing and dominant side comes out in the bedroom, so having people stumble in on him fucking his beautiful partner makes him embarrassed, yes, but also kinda extra horny

Edging: Mans. Is. A. Tease. And I won’t hear otherwise! He needs control over things and your orgasm is one of them

Mild Stuffing: Wait let me explain- Trey is particularly into the act of feeding you, specifically by hand, less about the after-effects of eating. Again, this is a control thing, this guy is a micromanager in my heart

Mild Degradation: His degradation always comes with an overly-sweet tone that makes you feel small, have some sample phrases; “Oh? You got really loud when I hit riiiight here. Oh oh, that feels good, doesn’t it?” “Who knew you could be so slutty, huh babe?” “Hush, you have to be quieter or the rest of the dorm will know you’re a whore.”

Praise: Giving, receiving, Trey likes praise! He loves you and he wants you to know he loves you! Extra points if you praise him too, he feels underappreciated at times

Cum Eating: Trust me when I say that you will be clean after sex with Trey. He doesn’t let a single drop go to waste, and he won’t let you waste any of his cum either. Finish your food (:

L = Location (Favorite places to do the do)

Classrooms after school, specifically right on your desk. He likes the mild risk of fucking you in a public area after everyone is meant to be gone, and the idea that you’ll think of him plowing your brains out everytime you sit there warms his heart… and his cock-

M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)

Facial expressions!!! Definitely!!! He likes the faces you make when he thrusts right into a sensitive spot, or the disappointed look when he edges you all over again, it’s his favorite part of sex

N = NO (Something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Food play. Everyone decides this is the number 1 Trey kink, but I say nay! I think baking and food in general remind him too much of his family, and therefore trying food play makes him think of his siblings which is a total boner killer

O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc)

Trey definitely prefers giving to receiving oral- he’s bad at thinking of his own needs. He loves giving head tho, it’s the perfect way to edge you and eat your cum at the same time! Not to mention the faces you make when he does something juuuust right. However, he does like cumming on your face and watching you swallow his cum!

P = Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.)

I think Trey always starts with a moderate pace so he can focus on making deeper thrusts and hitting all your sensitive spots, then goes rougher and faster when he gets close to cumming - but he has a tendency to slow down when he feels more emotional and intimate

Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.)

Trey doesn’t love quickies, he prefers to take his time to really play with you, but if you’re having sex in a semi-public area, he understands the necessity of ripping his pants off and gettin ‘er done. That being said, a quickie usually leads to him taking you home for a longer, more satisfying session.

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.)

Open to experiments! Obviously there are some things he’ll probably say no to (bodily fluids and really harming you), but if you want it, he’ll try it! He’s not the type to spring something new on you in the middle of sex, he much prefers talking it out beforehand. And yes, I will answer the age old question: can you peg him? Yes. He’s not going to suggest it first, as it’s not something he’s particularly interested in, but he’ll try it, and actually ends up enjoying it!

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last…)

He’s a one and done kind of guy; after cumming once, he can get overstimulated very easily and Trey is not down for the pain entailed. However, he makes that single round last; does not skimp on foreplay in the slightest and always makes sure you’ve cum at least once before he starts thinking about his own pleasure

T = Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)

Trey isn’t huge on toys- it’s a little bit silly, but he kind of gets jealous of your dildo. Isn’t he enough?? You don’t need that, you have him. However, he does see the use of a simple bullet vibrator; running it up and down your cock or pressing it to your clit while he fucks you and making you squirm juuuuuust right.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Big tease. Massive tease. HUMONGOUS tease. Trey likes when you ask him for sex, even when he’s the one who’s feeling it; and he’s going to make this your problem. He knows all the subtle little ways to get you hot and bothered, a brush near your thighs here, and a whisper in your ear there- he’s far more manipulative than he lets on! Eventually you’re so worked up from his teasing that you go running to Trey, then he has the audacity to call you needy! The nerve.

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make)

Trey mostly pants and grunts during sex, an occasional moan slipping out; but if you can talk your way into giving him the suck? He gets much much noisier, moaning and gasping and even whining, ugh, it’s beautiful.

W = Wild Card (Get a random headcanon for the character of your choice)

Kind of fantasizes about you as a househusband/wife. Regularly gets off on imagining himself coming home from work, and fucking your brains out in the kitchen while you try to cook. Something about the domesticity gets him so riled up, and he’s desperate to roleplay it with you, but too embarrassed to ask.

X = X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants, picture or words)

I give him 6.5 inches flaccid and 7 when he’s hard, medium girth. Honestly, his dick is a bit pretty, I think it’s got a little freckle at the base and his tip is a nice peachy-pink that goes very red when he’s close.

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

While initially pretty low, his libido goes waaaaaaaaaaay up after you start dating; he’ll be wanting it at least twice a week, if not a couple rounds more- not that he’s going to ask you directly, if he can avoid it. Trey prefers to feel needed, rather than needy, and while he’s fully capable of asking you for sex when he really wants it, more often than not he’s going to wait for you to ask

Z = ZZZ (… how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Trey has a good amount of time before he knocks out after sex, usually managing to clean you up and get a good shower in before he decides to go to sleep. However, if you’ve both gone for an especially taxing round, there’s a chance he’ll just flop down on top of you and decide to do it later.

That's the end of today's showing! Thank you for watching!

This was mostly me brainrotting about Trey again, he makes me stupid fr

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NSFW Alphabet: Idia Shroud!

Rated R, for EXPLICIT CONTENT!

A short script about Idia Shroud's sexual preferences!

Featuring: Idia Shroud, and you!

Beware! This film contains: sexual content (obviously), mentions of (hentai, fucking machines, sex pollen, tentacles), choking, praise, overstimulation, dumbification, gender neutral reader

A = Aftercare (What they’re like after sex)

By the end of the night, Idia is a wreck- highly likely you're doing the aftercare babes. The best you'll get from him is some cuddles and kisses before he conks out.

B = Body part (Their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Hands. Soft hands, rough hands, big hands, small hands, skinny hands- Idia just looooves hands. Idia likes how it feels when you run your hands over his skin, the way they feel in his hair, on his cock. He always thinks your hands look pretty, no matter what they’re doing.

Honestly, Idia isn’t sure he likes anything about himself; but at the very least, he has a love-hate relationship with his skin. Obviously he’s very pale, and he bruises very easily; on one hand he likes having your marks on him, on the other it’s very embarrassing that hickies show up like highlighter on his papery skin.

C = Cum (Anything to do with cum basically… I’m a disgusting person)

Geeze. Sorry Idia lovers but his diet isn’t very good and he definitely doesn’t drink a lot of water; it’s not tasty, pretty bitter, and thicker than syrup. The moment you start fucking he tries to change his diet and drinks more water- he feels very very bad about the texture and taste of his cum. Don’t tell him how you feel about it, he’ll shrivel up and die with shame. He doesn’t cum very much, only a couple little spurts- honestly it’s kinda cute.

D = Dirty Secret (Pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Do I even have to explain this one? It’s hentai- or more accurately, hentai, doujins and smutty fanfiction. Yeah, I’m projecting, what of it? He keeps a spank bank hidden deep on his pc full of his “material”, and he buries it even deeper when you two start getting it on. What’s his favorite genre you ask? Ohh well, sex pollen, tentacles, fucking machines. If you ever find it, he’d be mortified.

E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

EXPERIENCE?! IDIA???? Very funny babe, this man’s only experience is his fleshlight. Chances are he’s kissed more frogs than people, and don’t even get me started on sex. You’re going to have to guide this hot mess through every single step, buckle in baby.

F = Favorite Position (This goes without saying)

There’s two! If you’re pegging him (yeah I’m bringing it up this early), he prefers doggy style; this way he can muffle his noises and hide his face pretty easily, bonus: your strap/cock almost always hits his prostate at that angle. Now, if he’s the one putting it in you, he likes the cowgirl position, this way he can put his hands all over you and watch your expression all while doing very little work. Most of all, Idia prefers positions where he can stay still and just take whatever you do to him, pillow prince vibes for him.

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc)

Not at ALL. If you make a joke during sex, chances are Idia won’t even catch it because he’s too deep in the moment. God forbid you laugh about something, Idia’s delicate pride will be injured forever. He’ll need to stop immediately so you can reassure him that you still find attractive and no, you weren’t laughing at him- even then he’ll still need to stop for the night to reassure himself.

H = Hair (How well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.)

Alright sports fans, this is the one you've all been waiting for… yes he's got little fiery pubes! I think he's got a happy trail, and he's the type to not shave so don't worry about it disappearing. Like I said, he doesn't really shave, but if you two are regularly fucking, he'll trim and clean it regularly.

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect…)

Idia is a very very insecure man, he needs lots of reassurance and care. Maybe it's not all intimate, but there's never a moment that you think Idia doesn't love you. When he gets really needy, he'll pull you closer and bury his face into your neck, whimpering right into your ear.

J = Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon)

Man is horny. Hooooooorny. I'd say he jerks off at least once a day, with or without you guys regularly fucking. Idia is basically always in his room and on the internet, so if he feels the need he'll just pull up some good ol porn. The way Idia masturbates is almost frantic, humping into his own hand and whimpering- he's wayyyy too loud. The only obstacle is that he has to shoo Ortho out of the room to go do something else.

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks)

Praise: Is this really surprising to anyone? Idia is a delicate man, getting praised for anything makes him a little bit squirmy, but hearing it from you? He can't manage to say anything to you during the act, but his favorite thing to hear is "good boy".

Hair pulling: Idia's got a lot of hair! It's easy to your hand in it and yank hard, earning a cute little moan from him. Use his hair as a handle while you fuck him from behind please (:

Choking: Listen. Grab Idia by the throat. His eyes roll back and he drools all over himself- if you choke him out before you get started, it'll get him brick hard in a second.

Bondage: guy is a rope bunny. A lot of his kinks are about giving up control, considering Idia has played adult a lot of his life, and bondage is the number one way to give up control.

Blindfolds: Again, blindfolds are a great way to take away control and Idia likes being a little surprised by what you're doing!

Overstimulation: Idia loves when you make him cum so much it hurts, so much he goes stupid, so cute ((:

Dumbification: We all know Idia is anxious, and a sex is a great way to turn off his brain! He's heard that he's smart all his life, tell him he's a good, dumb boy and he'll melt into a little puddle of cum

L = Location (Favorite places to do the do)

BEDROOM. Sorry freaks, you cannot take this guy outside, he's too domesticated; he'll be way way way too freaked out to get or stay hard. Don't put him through this.

M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)

Praaaaise. Kill me for being repetitive, but Idia is most motivated by your words of praise! No matter the position, Idia is mostly here to serve you. He wants to hear how good he's making you feel, and how good he's being!

N = NO (Something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Idia is incredibly turned off by degradation. Mental illness does enough of that for him, and even if you claim that your harsh words don't reflect your true thoughts, Idia just can't shake it off; it eats him up at all hours. In the end, degradation would really just erode your relationship.

O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc)

Idia is giving pillow prince. For one, his big sharp teeth make it awfully hard to give head without shish-kebabing your bits, most people don't wanna risk that and especially not Idia. Second, Idia just makes the prettiest noises while you suck him off, why would you wanna do anything else? He drools and wails and nearly sobs like you're sucking the soul out of him- it's a sight to behold.

P = Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.)

If Idia is the one setting the pace, you'll have to get used to his somewhat erratic thrusts. He goes rough and fast in short bursts, then slows to a crawl- he's not trying to be a tease! He just gets overwhelmed so quickly…

Now, if you're the one doing the work, you'll quickly find that Idia prefers to start slower, then work up to a much faster pace- go too hard too soon and he'll cum early, and that's just embarrassing! Well, for him anyway

Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.)

Idia is horny with a capital H, so he won't mind a good quickie! Never expect it outside the comfort of your own home, however, if you get needy out in public that's between you, your right hand and the nearest bathroom.

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.)

I think Idia is rather open to experiment? As I said, he's low on experience and reads some kinky material, so he's likely to try anything once as long as they don't violate the three Ps (Public Places and Piss)

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last…)

Idia is here for a good time, not a long time. Sort of. To be clear, Idia is very sensitive and he's not going to last very long, but! He can go many rounds. Each round might be about 20-45 minutes, but he can manage at least 5 before he gets overstimulated, and even then, he's happy to keep going.

T = Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)

Before you two were a couple, Idia already owned a couple of toys, notably: a pocket pussy, and a butt plug he got to experiment with, but has been too scared to use. However, with some gentle nudging, you can get him to expand his tastes! Idia might not enjoy using toys on you, he's never quite sure what to do, but pleeeease use toys on him. His favorite combination is a 6-inch, studded vibrating dildo and a vibrating cock ring, drives him absolutely crazy.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Not at all, really? He's a bit too eager for that, he wants what he wants, and for the most part, Idia does not want to delay getting dicked down.

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make)

So loud. Gag Idia Shroud for the sake of your neighbors and eardrums. The man while whine and whimper while you suck him off, he moans so loud while you fuck him. Idia finds it humiliating and tries to stay quiet, but he's just so sensitive

W = Wild Card (Get a random headcanon for the character of your choice)

Idia cannot manage to take a single flattering nude, sorry guys ¯⁠\⁠_⁠(⁠ツ⁠)⁠_⁠/⁠¯ I think he somehow always makes his dick look scared in his photos

X = X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants, picture or words)

7 inches, don't think there's much of a size difference from when he's soft or hard. His dick is veeeeery pale, with an almost mauve-ish tip; no birthmarks or anything, but really prominent veins. #1 member of the leaky cock gang, he gets wet very fast and very easily.

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

Idia is incredibly horny, and getting together only makes him Worse™. He'll probably hit you with a "u up?" At least twice a week, if not more. However, Idia gets very anxious about seeming needy and puts off asking you until like midnight.

Z = ZZZ (… how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Pretty quickly, I think? Idia will knock out pretty quickly after you two finish up, he's not much of a physical activity guy. He does like some pillow talk after sex- mostly you reassuring him that he did well, that you enjoyed everything and that you still want him; but that's only going to last five minutes before he falls asleep. Clean up can happen in the morning!!

That wraps up our showing for today folks!

I hope I wrote Idia okay? He's not really my cup of tea so it was hard to think of things for him. Hope this quenches your thirst!

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A Fist Amidst The Hands

Rated PG, please view with caution!

The first episode of a series; Riddle is on a downward spiral, and with the "help" of delinquent classmate, he might be able to burn his college career to the ground.

Featuring: Riddle Rosehearts, Floyd Leech, (background appearances of Cater, Deuce, and Ace)

Beware! This film contains: Floyd x Riddle as the main ship, explicit self harm, uhh kinda implied delusions on Riddle's part, College au, hurt no comfort, mentions of violence, implied gang activity with the Leech twins, this is just a slow descant into madness guys buckle in

If you could call Riddle Rosehearts anything, it would be uptight. Not a hair out of place, not a second late; surgical precision seemed to be instinctual to him. The foolish amongst Night Raven College admired him, the more knowing pitied him; but most were just fucking annoyed.

For one, he was the strictest RA on campus, getting away with anything was second only to rocket science; and second, he was the kind of model student that professors pointed out in classrooms and lectures for his pristine notes and spotless attendance record. To put it shortly, he made everyone around him look bad. It was anyone's guess as to if that was his intent- people were inclined to believe the worst, purely out of annoyance.

All in all, there were plenty of reasons to hate Riddle, especially tonight, because Riddle had decided it was the perfect night for a room check. In no small part because of the party local junior Cater Diamond was throwing in his dorm tonight; but no sooner than he started on his way to Cater's dorm did a freshman come barreling down the hall towards him

"RIDDLE!!" Deuce's voice carried through the dorm.

"Deuce, quiet down! And no running in the halls!" Half the building could've heard Deuce screaming. "It's late, you'll wake people."

The freshman was flushed and flustered, sweating as he apologized, dropping his voice to a stage whisper. "Sorry, sorry; it's just- there's a fight in the bathroom!"

A hiss of annoyance pressed through Riddle's teeth. "Who is it? Which bathroom?"

"It's the first floor boy's room," the instant Deuce clued him in, Riddle started stalking off towards the elevator. "And it's Ace and some guy I don't know!"

They squeezed into the elevator, Riddle hardly giving Deuce time to enter before pressing the ground floor button. "Describe him."

The tapping foot, crossed arms, narrowed eyes; Riddle was growing impatient. "Uh, stupid tall, and skinny, with greeny-blue hair!"

In the course of seconds, Riddle went properly red in the face, jabbing the first floor button as fast as he could. "Fu- he's- I CAN'T BELIEVE-"

Deuce pressed himself into the farthest corner of the elevator and quietly prayed.

The elevator doors parted and Riddle took off like a force of nature. The clacks of his shoes against the floor like thunder, the building near trembled as RA Rosehearts tore through the common room. The boys bathroom floor slammed open and Riddle was greeted with a blood-pressure spiking sight.

Ace Trappola, a first year and general nuisance, beaten halfway to a bloody pulp and still struggling in the grasp of Floyd Leech.

"Floyd!" Riddle shouted from his chest, gaining both boys' attention.

Floyd had been holding Ace by the collar, a sick grin of enjoyment spread over his lips, but Riddle's yelling had snapped him out of it.

"Ah- hey goldfishy!" In an instant, Floyd dropped Ace to the tile, like a child growing bored of a toy.

Ace let out a long low groan of pain as his head hit the floor, but didn't yet move. "What the hell are you doing here? Do you know how many rules you're violating right now?!" Riddle prompted.

"Oh, just blowing off some steam!" Floyd nudged Ace's bruised up cheek with his shoe, watching his face scrunch up with pain. "Little crabby seriously helped out."

"Leave my freshman alone." Riddle made a little gesture for Deuce to go help his fellow first year. "What are you doing here?"

It was key to keep Floyd distracted, the man was 6 '1 and stronger than everyone in the room combined, not to mention highly temperamental and punch-happy; if Floyd felt so inclined to paint Riddle purple, he could and would.

"Ohhh, you know… just messing around." his gaze slowly pulled away from Riddle to Ace and Deuce on the floor. For a long moment, Deuce and Floyd made eye contact.

"In my dorm? Do you want to be arrested?" Riddle snapped at Floyd, shooting his dorm members a warning look.

"Auuuuugh, nooo!" Floyd let out a long groan of childish displeasure. "Jade is getting tired of bailing me out!"

Where both of those boys get all that money is lost on Riddle, but he's sure he wouldn't like to know anyway. "You'd think you'd learn after all that time. Get out of here already, won't you?"

Deuce is clumsily getting Ace to his feet so they can hobble to the door, just a bit longer. "Eh? But I'm not done..." Floyd turns his eyes back onto the freshman with an eerie glint, then flits back to Riddle. "You know, goldfishy, you're cute when you get all squirmy like that."

Riddle wiped the stupid, concerned expression from his face- he wouldn't give Floyd the satisfaction. Then, in a bold move, Riddle marches up to Floyd and grasps his upper arm in a tight grip, dragging him from the building. Both of them know that Floyd is letting Riddle yank him away, the man is twice Riddle's size and could probably bench press him on a bad day. Instead he's following the RA out of the Heartslaybul lobby and into the parking lot outside with a series of pleased giggles.

Floyd is still grinning when Riddle drops his arm and glowers at him. "Go home."

"But Ace still owes me money, that's not fair!" He whines like a petulant child, and for a moment Riddle considers how difficult it would be to knock Floyd out and drive him home himself. Too difficult. He wouldn't fit in the trunk.

"I'll make sure you get your money, one way or another." Riddle assured, quickly growing tired- it had gone from semi-late to far past due very quickly. "Please just leave."

Floyd tilted his head back to look at the stars while he thought, rocking back on his heels. "Nah." He sits down on a curb stop and holds a cigarette out to Riddle. "Smoke with me?"

With a sigh, Riddle takes the cigarette and tucks it into his pocket as he sits beside Floyd. "No, thank you, I don't smoke."

"Then why'd you take it, huh?" Floyd sounds smug, like he's caught Riddle in something.

"It's contraband. I should search your pockets for that." Riddle scolds emptily as Floyd pulls a second menthol Marlboro from his pocket.

He flicks a piece of pocket lint off of the filter and places the cigarette between his lips. "Yeah, yeah, shut up. You got a light?"

There's a heavy sigh while Riddle takes a little matchpad from his pocket and strikes a match head against the worn down lighting strip. Floyd leans closer when Riddle holds out the flame, letting it lick the tip of the cigarette. He pocketed the matchbook again and watched while Floyd breathed out a cloud of smoke into the air.

"Why can't you stay out of my hair?" Riddle regrets asking when Floyd leans nearly nose to nose with him, puffing that nicotine heavy breath into his face.

"Cus' it's fun." Floyd takes another drag, then blows it directly into Riddle's face. Riddle waved away the scent with a hand, but didn't cough.

"Lovely. Well," he stands up from the curb stop, "I'll be leaving. Return to your dorm after you finish that."

Floyd gives a lazy salute, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, yeah. Screw off already."

Riddle grits his teeth for a second, and nearly picks a fight over that- but decides against it. He's far too tired, even Cater's party had slipped from his mind, he hardly cared anymore.

The building was quiet enough for Riddle's taste when he stalked his way up to his dorm room; either way he didn't feel like scolding his dorm members into getting their rest, he had an exam to study for, the rest could sink or swim for all he cared.

His dorm, a single and neat as a pin, was similarly comforting. Riddle removed his shoes at the door- he only owned the one pair, so he had no need for a shoe rack--and padded across the cold wooden floor. The chair tucked into his desk was far from comfortable on his boney body, but at least his desk sat in front of the window, he got a good enough view of the rose garden. Riddle opened his window to get a breath of the fresh night air, a sigh of relief passing his lips as the slight breeze ghosted over his soft skin. A deep breath, taken with the hopes that the earthy scent of the roses after rain would sink into his bones. If he leaned forward far enough, hands planted on the wooden desktop, he could feel the moonlight on his closed eyelids.

Riddle sank back into his chair- he considered yelling at the furniture when it creaked beneath his meager weight. What did a chair have to complain for? Such a charmed life it led! No one to expect a thing of him, no work to perform. Jealous of a chair. That was truly pathetic, if mother were here now- Riddle slammed his hands over his ears hard enough to make them ring, as if the pain could drown out his thoughts. He knew well that his hands alone could not do the job.

Riddle peeled his hands away from his temples, fingers quivering as he pulled off his gloves and placed them on the desktop. Forfeiting studies for this, he could imagine the look on his mother’s face. His lungs burned as he took each shuddering breath, his blistered fingers stinging as they fumbled within his pockets, searching for his match pad. Riddle hissed in discomfort as he rubbed his raw blisters against the strike of the match book, but didn’t stop himself.

Even miles separated, his mother stayed at his side, hovering over Riddle’s shoulder and hissing reprimands into his ears; reminding him to remain diligent, never lose sight of the ultimate goal- she never quite defined what that was. More often than not, Riddle couldn't get away with dispelling his mother's words from his head; areas too public or equipped with smoke alarms, but in the privacy of his dorm, Riddle was free.

A simple flick of the wrist and Riddle held fire in his hands. The flame flitted and swished at the match head, a hungry animal crawling down the wooden stalk of the match until it licked the tips of Riddle's fingers. The heat brought blisters to the surface of Riddle's skin, a seating pain that seemed to make the words of his mother burn away as well. The match had gone dead and smoking, shriveled from the voracity of the fire.

Riddle stared at the cold body in his palm, devoid of the life the flames had once brought it. The poor match, it had never signed up for this; or did it know its fate? Was it only waiting to go hurtling down its path to the blazing future ahead? Silly thoughts to have about a match, silly thoughts he could do with setting ablaze. Another match, then. The first found it's grave within the trash, the next awaiting it's destiny in his matchbook.

It took a lot to satisfy Riddle, that was well enough known, and by the time he'd made peace with himself, he had made a right mess of himself. Black ash collected under his fingernails and stained the tips of his fingers to match the fierce pain in his skin, the sting of burns and stretch of pus filled blisters. What a moron he'd been at the time, wasting precious hours of studying or sleeping with this nonsense, not to mention the difficulties he'd face taking notes with his hands in the state they were in. With a strained hiss, he forced his leather gloves on over his injuries; a punishment, well deserved for his foolishness, and the wounds would heal eventually, anyway. Thin black stripes were left on the desktop as he swept the collection of dead matches into the trash can; there was hardly anything in there besides matches and tissues, though Riddle never got sick.

The voice in the back of his head draws close, a little bit quieter than before. Hands smooth over Riddle's shoulders, and Riddle is a child again, small as he stumbles into his twin bed at the hand of his mother. She whispers to him, a soft ‘time for bed, dear’ as she sits him down on the edge of the mattress. Riddle is 9 years old, his mother uses gentle hands as she wrestles his little brown oxfords from his feet and sets them aside. She helps him out of his shorts and little white button up.

Lazy and loathing, on this night Riddle barely works his way out of his pants and blazer before he flops onto his once tidy sheets. The shitty provided mattress is firm and unforgiving, but Riddle appreciates the meager softness anyway. Laid out on his side, Riddle tucked his knees up to his chest, not bothering to shuffle under the blankets but pull them over top of himself into he was wrapped in a clumsy cocoon.

Tomorrow. He'd clean the desk tomorrow, he'd make his bed tomorrow, he'd be good again tomorrow.

This is the end of today's showing! Thank you for viewing, have a good day

We'll see if I can ever manage to shit out another one of these, but I like how it's turning out so far (: