Bunny(≡・x・≡)

The first thing that rouses you is an awfully wet feeling against your lips. As soon as you shift away from the sensation, Rocky’s voice chirps out from behind your still-closed eyelids.

“Grace friend safe,” he’s still quiet, careful not to disturb you too much. “Is only Rocky.”

Oddly, despite the unnerving dampness rapidly cooling around your mouth, it does relax you to hear that, so you hum and shift back into the comfort of your sheets.

But again comes that wet sensation probing, prying your lips apart and working its way over your teeth. You huff and move to shift away again, still largely in the clutches of sleep, and you finally notice the odd hard shape that brushes over your upper thigh.

Your lids slide open, and you blearily observe the situation:

Rocky has practically mounted you, limbs curled spider-like over and between your own. This is not alarming, at least not anymore — you’ve come to find this is quite a normal position for him in the several times you’ve woken while he was watching you. What is unusual is his right hand over your jaw, two fingers still damp with your own saliva worked into your mouth. His left hand is curled behind your neck, his long, calloused fingers stroking the small hairs at the nape. Your eyes drift downward and you solve the question of that hard shape when you realize he has his hips hovering over your thigh, a leg on either side of it, and seems to have worked himself into something of a frenzy without any of your (conscious) help. A strange chirruping sound comes from him as your shifting brushes between his legs again.

Around his fingers, you grunt something that could sound a little like “what the hell?”

“Grace friend said it was okay,” he leans back onto his knees and extracts his fingers from your mouth, seeming a tad vexed. “Remember? Rocky asked if Rocky could touch while sleeping.”

The taste of his skin still lingers a little on your tongue. You do remember something like that conversation happening, although in your still half-asleep state, it’s hard to fully recall. You motion for him to lay back down on your chest, which he does with a bit of a huff, and your arms wrap around his ribs.

“Grace friend beautiful when sleeping,” his song is soft in your ear, and he’s mostly talking into your hair. “Looks peaceful. Wanted to touch.”

Coming from just about anyone else, that would be probably an incredibly creepy line. Coming from Rocky, it’s kind of sweet.

His hand finds your waist, the other still stroking the nape of your neck with a gentleness normally reserved for delicate xenonite weaving. “Keep going, question?”

You just nod, the warmth and weight of his body lulling you into a sort of half-sleeping, half-lucid stupor.

That hand on your waist keeps going, lower — and lower — finding your hip bone, his thumb rubbing gentle circles over it. He’s murmuring something now, as he often does in moments like this, repeating the same admirations he said earlier, but you aren’t really listening. His touch is awfully relaxing, not really helping you to be more present. More so, you’re being sent further into that stupor you had entered, the only real thing you can even focus on being the weight of his touch.

His hips buck forward into your thigh, resuming what you can only imagine were his earlier motions. He’s moving slowly, trying not to rouse you again, at what must be an aching pace for someone as usually impatient as him. Every now and again, when he can’t help it and he snaps his hips upward, you hear that little familiar chirping again, followed by a deep series of notes. It has no real translation; it’s more like his own analogue to groaning wordlessly.

The hand on your hip begins to migrate down past your waistband, his thumb seeking that spot that he likes to toy with so much. When he finds what he’s looking for, your hips rise subconsciously and uncontrollably, trying to meet the source of the sensation that’s tugging just below your navel. But as you do, he pushes down again on your hip, pushing you back into the mattress with more strength than you’d expected, almost a reprimand.

“Relax,” he coos. “Don’t move so much. Only Rocky.”

You can’t really tell if he means it as a reassurance or a command.

With his hand continuing its ministrations under your waistband, you can’t help but bury your face into his shoulder. It triggers what you can only describe as a smug sounding laugh in a series of chirps.

“Feels good, question?” That aura of smugness transfers into his words. “Comfortable, want more, question?”

You nod into his neck, at want for words whether because of the state of your consciousness or the state Rocky is leaving your undergarments in.

“Asked a question. Use words.”

There’s a part of you that briefly wonders if he’s really doing this now. Some part of you now considers if you’ve always found his bossiness a little bit hot, which you file away to consider some other time. The rest of you doesn’t really care about his attitude.

So you just muster up what energy you have to give him the best answer you can, and you’re proud that it’s only a little bit slurred.

As a reward, you’re granted two fingers dipping into you - a surprisingly fast uptick from his previous pace, so maybe he is getting a little impatient.

“Humans always leaking. Always damp somewhere. Always so wet when Rocky touch.” You think of arguing that it’s kind of a compliment to already be wet just from what he’s done so far, but you’re not really sure if you say it out loud or you just thought it. It doesn’t matter, because he’s pressing up into that spongy spot and curling his fingers and it’s shocking how quickly you react. You try to remember not to move, not to squirm, to stay still like he wants you to, but he’s not making it very easy. At the rate he’s going, you’re going to finish well before he’s ready, even discounting the absurd stamina he seems to possess. Then again, he never does like to make it easy on you — he’ll tell you what he wants, then do something that makes it incredibly difficult, and tease you relentlessly for your human inability.

His hand leaves your neck, and you complain at the loss of the comforting heat. He just shushes you and moves faster, and you aren’t really sure what in the world he’s doing until you hear clasps clinking and jingling.

“Want more,” he says. It isn’t a question. “Feels good, but not enough. Want to be inside.”

He’s drawing out his fingers, then, and you clench at the loss of pressure and feeling, but he’s already using one hand to grasp your upper thigh and the other is behind your knee. Cautiously, he pushes and pulls you into the position he wants, and you allow it. Your head is still swimming while he’s drawing your bottoms down your thighs and past your knees. You can’t even open your eyes. You’re lost, floating, in his presence, and somehow you’re finding you like that feeling.

When you feel his length finally probing at your entrance with the same curiosity as always, a pathetic little whimper slips from between your lips. He sheathes himself quickly — there’s that impatience again — but the stretch turns pleasant, despite the burn, and he’s spent quite a while preparing you by now. The pace he sets is slow, since he still seems to be unwilling to allow you to fully awaken, wanting to enjoy the peacefulness on your face interrupted only by the way your brows draw together or the broken noises that spill out from your throat. It’s painstaking — a little bit maddening — and it feels deliberate somehow. You know he’s feeling it too, by the shivering breaths he’s drawing as he wraps his entire body around you again, only serving to push himself deeper and further into you. He must be quite taken by the sight of you like this if he’s willing to undergo what for him must be torturous for the sake of maintaining your present state.

“Warm,” he’s muttering next to your ear, only a little incoherently. “Warm, soft.”

Each push and pull, the drag against your core and the thrust against your tightening muscles, his warm breath and quiet noises in your ear, all of it serves to draw you into a complete sensory experience. Your consciousness focuses into a singularity, a point focused entirely on where your two bodies meet. His hand clenches on your hip, fingers dipping into the soft flesh there, the other hand reaching back up to meet your forehead with the lightest of strokes, like he means to ground himself with the touch of your skin. His fingers are trembling with the effort he’s putting forth, but still velveteen when they make contact.

“Please,” his voice pitches up half an octave, still quiet. You’re not exactly sure what he’s pleading for until the hand on your hip migrates to that most sensitive spot again, less controlled this time — sloppy, even. He wants you to finish with him. He always does; it’s a quirk of his that he never seems to fully explain, but he always puts the work in for you to make it happen. He’s putting in the work now, and it’s not for nothing. The ache in your core is drawing up, twisting and tightening around him which only serves to bring the ungodly noises he’s making from senseless groaning to truly desperate cries.

It’s like a bright light behind your eyes, when you clench and pulse and you keep spilling and wetting the entire area of his pelvis. It’s like a sudden shock of electricity, when your thighs clench and close around his waist, and you let out a sound you swear you’ve never produced before. The continuing motion only exacerbates it, brings you high up where the air is thin and your head spins, and everything pressurizes. He’s still going, losing his rhythm as he starts to stutter and the fingers stroking your forehead instead now grip your head into his neck, while he sings absolute filth into your ear. It’s not long after that he finally slows and makes his way into a stop. You feel something leaking out now, and you aren’t sure to which of you it belongs. His body relaxes against yours, though he stays firmly sheathed inside - another odd quirk of his that you’ve come to accept.

Slowly, his breathing steadies as he continues to hold you against him. The high and crash of hormones has brought you to the precipice of consciousness, your limbs reduced to little more than vestigial remnants in function. He purrs and coos as he undergoes the same process, his weight distributing over you as he settles in like an overgrown cat.

“Did good, good, good,” his speech is slowing, quieting, and the quiet voice in your head that’s still meandering in the waking world tells you that you’ll probably need to get Grace to bed sooner than later, because neither of you are much up to watching the other at the moment. “Felt good. Happy.”

He nuzzles deeper into your neck as you’re drifting further, the warm sensation of his body heat surrounding you like a cover. In the morning, you’ll wake up, and Grace will give you that look he does when you have to strip the bedclothes and find replacements, and you won’t say anything to him but he’ll still know, and probably will have since he came in to watch over the two of you. You’ll give him a look back, and he’ll know not to ask, maybe raise his hands by his head with a shrug and turn back to his work, and Rocky will reference later to the mess you made and tease you for it despite his own not insignificant part in it.