⋆˚₊ 𖤓☽˚.⋆The Sky, Land, and Below⋆˚₊ 𖤓☽˚

for example:

“you're trembling," he'll observe, his voice that low, pleasant hum. “that's normal. it will pass." and then he'll pull a blanket over you, not because he's soft, but because "temperature regulation is essential for recovery."

side note: he absolutely keeps a stash of water and snacks by his bed. not for romance. for efficiency. but you'll appreciate it when your legs don't work.

however, aftercare when his eyes are red is... different.

he's much quieter, more the type to trace the marks he left, so all the bites, the scratches, the places where his hands gripped too hard and his cyan eyes will switch back and forth between colors, like he's fighting something.

"did i hurt you?" he'll ask, voice is still calm, but there's bit of care underneath it.  if you say no, he'll relax. if you say yes, he'll spend the next hour making sure you're okay. stitches if you need them, salves, soft touches that don't ask for anything in return.

b = body part

his favorite: his hands

why? because they're elegant, long-fingered? (lol), and always cool to the touch. he uses them for everything, surgery, gardening, maybe playing heavy metal guitar? (kidding) and you.

he knows exactly how much pressure to apply. where to touch. how to make you shiver without even trying.

for example:

"fascinating," he'll murmur, tracing a line down your spine. "your skin responds so beautifully to stimulus." also his eyes, when they're cyan, he's observing. when they're red, he's hungry. and watching them shift mid-act? chef's kiss.

for you, is your throat.

doctor loves watching your pulse. the way it flutters when you're nervous. the way it races when he's close. the way it jumps when his fingers brush against your jugular. 

"such a vulnerable place," he'll say, thumb resting lightly on your windpipe. "and yet you let me touch it. do you trust me that much? or are you simply... foolish?"

he says it like both answers please him.

c = cum

he has two sides, first is the clinical interest. he'll observe the quantity, the consistency, the way your body reacts to release. he might even... take notes afterwards.

for example:

"interesting," he'll murmur, more to himself than to you. "the viscosity has changed since last time. i wonder if it's something you ate."

his fingers trail through it. testing. studying.

and then he might actually pull out a small notebook. a little leather one he keeps in his coat pocket. and he'll write things down.

“your volume is approximately four milliliters, the consistency, slightly thicker than average and thrn color pearlescent white with minimal translucence."

you'll be lying there, still trembling, still trying to remember how to breathe, and he'll be taking notes.

"fascinating," he'll say, capping his pen. "your heart rate spiked 30% higher than last time. your pupils dilated more rapidly. your skin flushed deeper."

he looks at you. cyan eyes softs, "i wonder what triggered that. we should... experiment further. for science."

and you'll know, even though he won't say it , that you triggered it. you did that to him. and he's very grateful.

however, the other side, is more messy, possessive. 

he doesn't pull out carefully anymore. doesn't observe from a distance. no, no. when he's red, he wants to mark you. wants to see his release on your skin, on your lips, in you. 

he likes seeing it on you—your stomach, your thighs, your lips if you've been good. he likes the visual proof that he's affected you.

"look at that," he'll murmur, red eyes tracking every drop. "you're ruined. and i did that." 

he says it like a compliment.

d = dirty secret

doctor terrified of being bad at intimacy.

not sex. he's like somewhat confident there but the after, you know, the during. the moments where he's supposed to be soft and he doesn't know how.

so he overcompensates with science. with observation and data because if he can study you, he can understand you. and if he can understand you, he can't fail you.

also? he's desperately curious about what you sound like when you're not holding back. when you forget to be polite. when you break a little but he'd never admit that. 

well, not out loud, anyway.

e = experience

how experienced is he?

if recall correctly, doctor is a virgin, very much inexperienced.

not because he couldn't. not because no one wanted him. but because he never... let anyone close enough. doctor is shy, and not in the cute way pierrot is—all trembling hands and desperate confessions. doctor's shyness is much quieter and colder. 

he doesn't know how to be touched. doesn't know how to want someone without studying them first.

and he's massive. you've seen him. you know. the way he has to duck through doorways. the way his horns scrape the ceiling. the way his hands, long, elegant, cool hands—could wrap around your throat without even trying.

he's aware of his size. acutely aware. 

and it terrifies him.

for example:

"i could hurt you," he's said. not as a threat. as a fact. "without meaning to. without wanting to. my body is not... gentle."

so he kept his distance, listened to his heavy metal music and watched from the shadows.

never touching, reaching until you.

here's the thing about doctor. he's brilliant. he knows anatomy better than anyone—every nerve, every pulse point, every place where pleasure and pain intersect but knowing something intellectually? reading about it in books? observing it in specimens?

that's not the same as doing.

he doesn't know how to kiss. his first attempt with you was clumsy. his teeth bumped against yours. his mask got in the way. he pulled back, red-faced--redder than usual, anyway, and said:

“…let me try again."

he doesn't know how to touch without examining. his fingers want to find your pulse. want to check your pupils. want to document instead of feel. "stay still," he'll say, and you'll think he's being commanding. but really? really?

he's just scared, scared of hurting you. scared of doing it wrong. scared that you'll laugh at him, leave him, decide he's not worth the effort.

but he's learning for you.

he’ll reads books about intimacy, pleasure, how to touch someone gently when your hands are made for surgery.

he practices on his plants. please don't laugh, he does. you should see the way he strokes his ferns now. tender like he's learning what softness feels like.

hell he’s even seat the 

he asks questions. so many questions.

"does this feel good?" he'll murmur, his cool fingers tracing your spine. "what about this? here? here?" 

and when you gasp, when you say yes, his eyes shine red for just a second. like he's proud of himself and accomplished something monumental. "fascinating," he'll breathe. "i've never made anyone sound like that before. i'd like to do it again."

that's worth more than all the experience in the world.

f = favorite position

cowgirl. simple and fitting.

and not because he's lazy, because he likes watching you. from below, he has the perfect view of your face, every flutter of your eyelids, every parted-lip breath, every moment you lose yourself. "don't look away," he'll instruct, cyan eyes fixed on yours. "i want to see everything."

yet from the red side, it’s from behind. kneeling. bent over something—his desk, his examination table, you name it.

he likes the control. the way he can grip your hips and set the pace. the way he can lean over and whisper in your ear, red eyes glowing in the dark.

"you're doing so well," he'll say. "just a little longer. i want to see how much you can take."

g = goofy

is he serious during intimacy, or can he be playful?

well …does doctor look like he does goofy?

you know what, why even asked that, (everyone in the fandom draws mans as a damn bird with one stick leg, so maybe)

he's a bit serious during sex, like focused and intense but sometimes something will catch him off guard. maybe a noise or a cramp, or the way your stomach growls at an inopportune moment.

he'll pause and tilt his head, processing, "...that was unexpected," he'll say and then he'll keep going.

(unsure why doctor and ticket taker gives so much DILF vibes??)

h = hair

how important is hair to him? does he like having his touched?

doctor has red hair, dark and rich. 

the kind you want to run your fingers through…? now is he well-groomed? ...he's a doctor, dear. hygiene is kind of his thing. as for down there, he’s trimmed. 

he'd call it "maintained for optimal hygiene and accessibility." i call it "he definitely manscapes and probably has opinions about it."

i = intimacy

how important is emotional connection during sex?

this is where it gets complicated.

doctor doesn't really romance. not the way pierrot does, with tears and poetry and desperate clinging, actually, now thinking about it I feel like he's like the only one that would do a romance… maybe just pierrot, ticket taker and maybe jester in his own way.

anyway! doctor's intimacy is observation.

he shows he cares by noticing. remembering and cataloging the things that make you you and keeping them safe in that strange, clinical mind of his.

"you always bite your lip when you're thinking," he'll say, mid-act. "and you make a small sound—here—when you're close."

he's not trying to be sexy. he's just... telling you. sharing his data. letting you see how much attention he's paid.

and somehow, that's more intimate than any love confession.

j = jack off

does he masturbate? how often? what does he think about?

he treats it like... maintenance.

just a biological need. something to address so he can focus on other things, efficient and quick. he probably has a schedule. uhh, don't think about it too hard.

but he gonna become more obsessive later on.

when his eyes are red, he thinks about you. specifically. vividly. the sounds you'd make, the way you'd look, the things he'd do to you. now these sessions take much longer.

and afterwards, he just... lies there, staring at the ceiling

"...inefficient," he'll mutter, and then he'll do it again the next night.

k = kink

what unusual turn-ons does he have?

oh my, where do i start?

well, just know that doctor is known to be the least kinky out of everybody in the circus, however his interest still lies on the kniy side

1. mask kink (obviously)

he wears his plague mask during sex sometimes. the beak. the hollow eyes. the way his voice sounds muffled and otherworldly. "keep it on," you'll beg. and he will. because he likes the way you look at him when he's unrecognizable.

2. medical play

examinations. instruments. the cold press of a stethoscope against your racing heart. "just breathe," he'll say. "i'm going to take such good care of you."

3. blood play.

he doesn't need to draw it all the time. but if it happens—if you want it to happen, he won't say no. "you're so beautiful like this," he'll murmur, watching red drip down pale skin. "like a wound that wants to be kissed."

5. sadism. just light and controlled. nothing you can't handle but he likes the way you stay still, the way that tiny gasp leaves your lips. the way you trust him even when he's being mean. 

"good job sweetie,” he'll say. and mean it.

l = location

favorite places to do it?

1. the greenhouse

this is his primary spot. it's warm, humid, and smells like soil and blooming things. there's something about being surrounded by life while he does unspeakable things to you that just works. He'll lay you down on the soft moss and say, 

“no one will find us here. scream if you want. the plants don't mind." It's his space, and he wants you in it.

2. his tent

basic, but reliable. his tent is where he keeps his tools, his examination table, and his specimens. there's a clinical intimacy to it, like the faint smell of antiseptic, the soft glow of wet specimen jars lining the walls. ge's comfortable here. In control. and he likes having you somewhere that feels like his.

3. the examination table

as mention, this one is less about romance and more about convenience. It's the right height. It has straps, which he may or may not use). and there's something deeply unsettling in a way that he enjoys, about laying you down where he usually examines his specimens. 

“stay still," he'll say. “this won't hurt. Much."

m = motivation

what gets him in the mood?

1. trust

doctor is used to fear. flinching, crying, and begging. 

he's seen it all, and honestly? It bores him. fear is useful, well biologically speaking but it doesn't interest him. what gets his blood pumping is calm. xomeone who tries to look under  his mask, his tools, his red eyes, and doesn't run.

"you're not scared of me," he observed, tilting his head. "why?"

and when you said, "because i trust you," his eyes shine red for just a second with a sharp smile yet he looked away before anything else could happen

that's when you knew. he's not motivated by terror. he's motivated by trust. by someone who sees the monster and stays anyway. by you.

2. vulnerability

not the weak kind. it’s more like when you bare your throat to him, so literally or figuratively, when you let him see you shaking, hear you gasping, watch you fall apart because of him... his breath catches. his hands tighten. his eyes go red and stay there.

"you're giving this to me," he'll murmur, thumb brushing your pulse point. "your fear. your pleasure. your everything. do you have any idea what that does to me?"

he doesn't expect an answer. he doesn't need one. the way you tremble beneath him is answer enough.

3. the audacity

so bravery that borders on stupid. when you talk back. when you grab his mask and pull it close. when you whisper something filthy in his ear just to watch him break.

"you think you can handle me?" you ask, and his eyes go red instantly. "careful," he warns, voice low. "i'm not as gentle as i look." but you don't stop. you never stop. 

and that audacity is what pushes him over the edge.

for example:

you're in his greenhouse. the air is nice, thick and warm, smelling of soil and blooming jasmine. he's tending to his plants, back turned, cyan eyes soft, completely unaware of you watching from the doorway.

"you're staring," he says without looking up.

"maybe."

he sets down his watering can, turn to face you and tilts his head. "what do you want?"

you step closer, enough to touch, to see the way his pupils dilate.

"you," you say in a simple and honest tone.

his eyes shine red, just once then back to cyan.

"that's... dangerous."

"i know."

you reach up and push his mask to the side. just enough that you can see the sharp line of his jaw, the way his breath catches when your thumb brushes his lower lip.

"still not scared," you whisper.

his hands find your waist, grip tight. "you should be."

"but i'm not."

his eyes flash red, stay red this time. and then he's lifting you onto the workbench, onto your back, onto the soft moss he keeps for his more delicate specimens. his body presses against yours. his weight pins you down, his mouth—finally,   finds your throat.

"you asked for this," he growls against your skin. "you begged for this. don't you dare pretend otherwise."

you don't. you moan instead. loud enough that the plants shiver.

"good," he breathes. "such a good specimen. now hold still. i want to see how loud i can make you scream."

n = no

what would make him stop immediately?

1. feigned or performative fear

again, doctor is used to real fear. he knows what it looks like, the dilated pupils, the rapid breathing, the way the body tenses and tries to pull away. what he cannot stand is fake fear. performative trembling. exaggerated whimpering. anything that feels like an act rather than an authentic response.

“if you're going to put on a show for me," he says flatly, pulling back, "we're done here. i don't do theater."

he needs genuine reactions. honest ones. if he suspects you're playing a role just to please him, he loses interest immediately.

2. loss of consciousness or dissociation

let’s say if you pass out from pleasure, pain, or from overstimulation—he stops immediately. If you dissociate, your eyes go blank, stop responding like you... he pulls back and goes into full doctor mode.

“stay with me," he'll say, checking your pulse, your pupils, your breathing. “look at me. look at me."

he will not continue until he is certain you are fully present and fully consenting. and if you cannot get there? the encounter ends. he will hold you, comfort you. but he will not touch you again that night.

“i need you here," he admits quietly. “not floating somewhere I cannot follow. if I lose you... i don't know how to come back from that."

o = oral

giving vs receiving?

giving: doctor is very skilled. 

he knows anatomy well, such as every nerve, every fold, every spot that makes your legs shake. he knows exactly where to put his tongue, his lips, his teeth. and he is patient.

he will stay down there for as long as it takes, lapping and sucking and exploring, until you are trembling, begging, completely forgotten your own name.

for example:

“fascinating," he murmurs against your slick skin, his breath warm, his tongue flicking lazily over your clit. "You're so responsive. i wonder how many more times i can make you—"

you never find out. because you pass out. 

and he has to stop and do aftercare instead.

don’t worry, he doesn't mind. he'll just try again tomorrow.

receiving: doctor is enthusiastic about it.

when you take him into your mouth, his hands tangle in your hair, not pushing nor forcing, just holding. his hips twitch and breath catches, eyes switch cyan to red and back again, like he cannot decide which side of him is winning.

for example:

“don't stop," he breathes, and his voice is still calm, but there is something underneath it. 

he has to be careful with you though. he is massive. not just long, thick. and when you take him into your throat, when you push past your gag reflex and take him, you can see the bulge in your neck, very prominent and obvious, moving when he does.

and you are barely halfway through.

he watches this happen. his red eyes track the way your throat stretches around him, the way your jaw strains, the way your eyes water but do not look away.

“f-fascinating," he whispers. “look at that. you can see me inside you."

again, he is careful, though. he does not want you to choke. he pays attention to your breathing, your color, the way your hands grip his thighs for stability.

“breathe through your nose, sweetie” he instructs softly. “good. good. you're doing so well."

but he is also pushing your limit. just a little. he will hold you there, his cock trying to be halfway down your throat, the bulge in your neck pulsing with your heartbeat and he will wait. “you can take more," he murmurs. “i know you can. show me."

abd when you try, relaxed your throat, let him slip deeper, when the bulge in your neck grows more pronounced his is grip tightens in your hair. a low sound escapes him, something between a groan and a growl.

“good specimen," he breathes. “such a good specimen."

also if you look up at him through your lashes while he is in your mouth, while your lips are stretched around him, while tears cling to your lashes and your throat is full—

he’ll will break.

his hips will stutter. his breath will hitch. his red eyes will go wide, then narrow, then dark. “you,” he will say, voice rough, wrecked, nothing like his usual calm. “you are going to be the death of me."

and he will mean it. every word.

he does not let you go until tears stream down your cheeks and your throat is full of him. and even then, he pulls out slowly, just watching the way your lips release him with a wet sound.

“you did excellently," he says, cupping your chin, tilting your face up. his thumb wipes the tears from your cheeks. “we will practice again tomorrow. i want to see how much more you can fit."

overall, doctor loves oral both ways. 

p = pace

fast and rough, or slow and gentle?

somedays, slow because doctor isn't in a rush. he has all night, and he intends to use it. every touch is measured. every thrust is calculated. he's studying you—the way you respond, the sounds you make, the places where you're most sensitive.

"interesting," he'll murmur, adjusting his angle. "you made a different sound that time. let me try again."

other days, hard, fast, and desperate.

again when his eyes are red, the control slips. not completely—he'd never lose control but enough that you can feel the hunger beneath the calm. "you wanted this," he'll growl, gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. "you wanted the monster. so take him."

and you do. because you're brave like that.

q = quickie

does he like quick, spontaneous encounters?

honestly, it’s not his favorite.

doctor prefers time and space. you know, the ability to observe and catalog and draw things out. but sometimes when his eyes are red and you're wearing something distracting and there's a supply tent right there—sometimes he makes exceptions.

"this is inefficient," he'll mutter, pushing you against the wall. "we don't have enough time for proper aftercare."

he does it anyway.

r = risk

is he willing to take risks? (public, being caught, etc.)

absolutely not.

like, hard no. the doctor hates the idea of being caught. hates it. it's not even about embarrassment or shame—it's about control. his work, his experiments, his time with you — none of it is for public consumption.

he doesn't want an audience. doesn't want curious eyes. doesn't want someone walking in and asking questions he doesn't feel like answering.

"this is between you and me," he says, voice low and final. "no one else. ever."

he means it.

so no, you're not going to convince him to sneak into a supply closet during a show. you're not going to drag him behind the tents while the crowd is distracted. he'll shut that down immediately.

"we're not animals," he says flatly. "and i'm not a performer. what i do with you is private. mine. i don't share."

and it's not just about modesty. it's about interruption. the doctor cannot stand being interrupted. not during his research, not during his experiments, and definitely not during intimacy.

nothing kills his mood faster than a knock on the door or a voice calling his name from outside the tent.

his focus shatters. his body goes cold. and his eyes, which might have been red just a second ago and switch back to cyan like someone flipped a switch.

"wait," he says, pulling away, already reaching for his mask. "someone's coming."

and then he's gone. not physically because he's still right there but the moment is over. the heat is gone. he's already calculating who it might be, what they want, how quickly he can get rid of them.

by the time whoever it is leaves? he's not in the mood anymore. maybe later. maybe tomorrow. but right now? he's a bit frustrated and cold and done.

"i told you," he says, not looking at you. "this is why i prefer the greenhouse. no one bothers us there."

except for the plants. but the plants don't count. the plants are silent.

for example:

you're on his examination table. the leather is cool beneath your back, but his hands are warm, warmer than usual pressing you into the surface as his mouth works its way down your throat.

his mask is off. pushed aside. probably forgotten somewhere on the floor.

"stay quiet," he murmurs against your collarbone. "i don't want anyone to hear you." his hips press against yours. 

you can feel him through his clothes, hard, heavy, ready and your breath catches. "doctor—"

"shh." his fingers find the button of your pants. undoes it. slips inside.

and then, you and him hear, "doctor? you in there?"

a muffled voice, harlequin's voice, dripping with amusement like he knows exactly what he's interrupting.

the doctor freezes, his whole body goes rigid above you. his eyes which had been that deep, hungry red switch to flash cyan so fast it almost hurts to watch.

"don't move," he whispers then he pulls away. straightens his coat. reaches for his mask.

"what?" you breathe. "you're just going to—“

"yes."

he's already at the tent flap, mask in place, cyan eyes cold and distant.

"not now, harlequin," he says, voice flat. "i'm busy."

"busy doing what?" harlequin's grin is audible. "because it sounded like you were—“

"leave." just one word he said. 

yet there's a pause. a snicker. and then footsteps retreating.

doctor stands there for a long moment, his back to you, his shoulders tense.

"...he's gone," you say.

"i know."

"so we can—“

"no." he turns. his eyes are still cyan. still cold. the heat from before is gone, replaced by something tired and frustrated and closed off.

"the moment is ruined," he says. "i cannot simply... pick up where we left off. not when my mind is already calculating how long it will be before the next interruption."

"but—“

"another time, sweetie.”

he crosses to his desk. sits down. pulls out a notebook.

you're still on the examination table, pants undone, body buzzing with want that has nowhere to go.

"you're just going to... take notes?"

"yes."

"...about what?"

he looks at you, just for a second. "about how you looked just now," he says quietly. "spread out on my table. wanting me. needing me." he looks down at his notebook. "i'll use it for... research. later. when i'm alone."

your face burns. "that's not fair."

"no," he agrees. "it's not."

and then he starts writing once again. so yeah doctor doesn't do risks, public, or interruptions.

s = stamina

how long can he last?

holy shit. well, doctor can go for hours.

not because he's superhuman—though, i mean, monster but because he knows how to pace himself. how to draw things out. how to make you do most of the work while he observes. on red side is faster. more intense. but also shorter. like a storm violent, consuming, and then over.

as for rounds? three. maybe four, if you beg nicely.

t = toys

do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?

yes, absolutely.

doctor has tools. not sex toys, technically — medical equipment. but he's... creative. vibrating tools designed for muscle stimulation. speculums for examination. sounds for listening. things that vibrate, things that pulse, things that stretch.

"this isn't sexual," he'll say, holding up something that is definitely sexual. "this is for research."

he's lying but it's hot lying, so you let it slide.

u = unfair

how much do they like to tease?

well, doctor can be a bit of a liar.

not in a mean way. not in a way that hurts. but in a way that makes you want to scream his name while he watches you fall apart with those calm, cyan eyes.

see, here's the thing. he doesn't realize how good he is at teasing. it's not intentional, not at first. it's just... part of who he is. part of his clinical training. 

and sometimes, when he's studying you, he notices things.

like the way your hips twitch when he gets close but doesn't touch. like the way your breathing changes when his fingers trail up your thigh and stop just short of where you need them. like the way you whimper, just a little when he pulls his hand away completely.

"fascinating," he'll murmur, watching you squirm. "your body is desperate for release. your heart rate has increased by nearly 40%. your pupils are dilated. your skin is flushed."

he tilts his head. those cyan eyes never leave your face.

"but i want to see how long you can maintain this state."

and he means it.

he'll keep you there for hours if you let him. fingers hovering, mouth pressed to your neck but not kissing, hips flush against yours but not moving. just... waiting. watching. cataloging every twitch, every gasp, every desperate little sound you make.

"please," you'll beg. "please, doctor—"

"not yet." his voice is calm and composed.

and somehow that makes it so much worse.

because if he were being mean, like if he were smirking or laughing or calling you names, you could get angry, try to push him away.

but he's not being mean. he's just... curious. genuinely curious about how much you can take.

and you? you want to be good for him, be the specimen that exceeds his expectations. the one he writes about in his notebook with little stars in the margins.

so you stay still. you hold back. you let him watch.

and when he finally touches you, when his fingers slide into you like they belong there, you nearly sob with relief. "good," he breathes. "such a good specimen. i knew you could do it."

his eyes shine red for just a second.

and you realize: he enjoyed that. maybe more than you did.

the red side is worse. so much worse.

because when his eyes are red, he's not just observing. he's participating. and he's smiling. not a big smile. not a creepy grin. just... a small curl at the corner of his lips. the kind that says i know exactly what i'm doing to you and i love every second of it.

"you're shaking," he'll observe, red eyes glowing. "good. keep shaking. i want to see how long it takes for you to break."

and he'll keep pushing. and pushing. and pushing.

bringing you to the edge. pulling you back. bringing you again. pulling you back.

until you're crying. until you're begging. until you can't remember your own name, only his. "please," you sob. "please, i can’t—“

"you can." his voice soft, almost gentle. "and you will. because i asked you to."

he's a liar. he told you he wasn't good at teasing. he told you it wasn't intentional.

but the way he smiles when you fall apart? the way he watches you unravel like a specimen under a microscope?

yeahhh. he may knows exactly what he's doing.

v = volume

how loud are they? what sounds do they make?

doctor is quiet, in my opinion.

now, not the kind of quiet where he's holding back. not the kind where he's embarrassed or shy. just... quiet. naturally, effortlessly, quiet. he doesn't moan. doesn't gasp. doesn't whimper or cry out or any of the things you might expect from someone so intense.

but he still breathes.

when he's calm, when his eyes are cyan and he's just observing, just studying, his breathing is slow. measured. almost hypnotic. in through his nose, out through his mouth. steady as a metronome.

but when he's into it? when his eyes start switching red and his composure starts to crack?

his breathing changes. it gets heavier. faster. hungrier. 

like you can hear it in the quiet moments—when his face is buried in your neck, when his forehead is pressed against yours, when his lips are hovering just above your skin.

inhale. exhale. inhale. exhale.

each breath feels like a caress. like he's tasting you through the air alone.

and sometimes, which is rae, when he's close, when his eyes are red, when you've been perfect, he'll make a sound.

a hum, low and pleased, almost like a purr.

it vibrates through his chest, through his hands, through the places where your bodies touch. and it makes your toes curl. every single time.

"there," he'll breathe, voice barely a whisper. "just like that. stay."

and you will. because his voice is commanding, even when it's barely audible. even when it's soft. even when it's gentle.

"you're so quiet," you say once, afterward, when you're both catching your breath. "i can barely hear you."

he looks at you. "i don't need to be loud," he says. "you make enough noise for both of us."

it's not an insult. it's just... true.

because when he's inside you, when his fingers are working you open, when his mouth is on your throat, when his hips are pressing you into the mattress, you can't help but sound.

you moan. you gasp. you whimper. you cry out his name like a prayer.

and he listens.

he listens to every sound, catalogs every pitch, files away every desperate little whine for later. for research. "fascinating," he'll murmur, thumb brushing your lower lip. "the sounds you make. i've never heard anything like them."

his eyes shines red.

"i'd like to hear more."

and then he's on you again, quiet, always quiet while you fall apart beneath him.

he doesn't make a sound but you make plenty.

w = wild card

what's the wildest thing they're willing to do? where are their limits?

you'd expect me to say something about his red side. something about the sadistic streak, the hunger, the way he loses control when his eyes flash crimson. or him dedicating his time to make you a large nest to impress you with.

and yeah, that's part of it. but that's not unexpected. 

the wild card? the thing that will actually surprise you?

he lets you take care of him.

not in a sexual way, okay so well, not only in a sexual way. but in a soft way. in a way that has nothing to do with scalpels or specimens or clinical observation.

see, doctor is always the one in control. always the one observing, studying, taking care. he tends his plants. he tends his patients. he tends you.

but he never lets anyone tend to him until you.

and when he finally does, lets you see the soft, vulnerable thing underneath the mask—it's the wildest thing he's ever done. because for the doctor, vulnerability is terrifying. more terrifying than any experiment. 

so, he lets you run your fingers through his red hair while he lies on your chest, eyes closed, breathing slow. he lets you kiss his forehead, his bare forehead, mask pushed aside without flinching or pulling away.

he lets you whisper sweet things in his ear and doesn't call them "inefficient" or "sentimental."

he just... accepts them and you.

and sometimes, on the rare nights when his walls come down all the way, he even asks for it. "stay," he'll murmur, voice barely audible. "don't go. not yet."

and you'll stay because doctor, the so called cold, clinical, composed doctor is clingy bird when he lets himself be. he wraps himself around you like a vine, all long limbs and cool skin, and he doesn't let go until morning.

x = x-ray

let's see what's going on under those clothes there

so …are you sure you want to do this? all of it? it’ll make your thighs press together and your breath catch just thinking about it?

fine. let's talk about what the doctor is packing.

because here's the thing. you've seen him. you know he's very tall, above average height, 207 cm to be exact (6’9.5 ft)—you know he's bulky and simply massive.

but down there?

down there is where the surprise lives.

under his clothes, the doctor is massive. not in a cartoonish way, not comically oversized or absurdly proportioned. but in a way that makes your eyes go wide and your mouth go dry and your brain short-circuit because how is that supposed to fit inside you?

he's the biggest of the entire circus. bigger than pierrot. bigger than jester. bigger than anyone.

and he knows it.

the length alone when fully erect, he's just over nine inches. call it twenty-three centimeters for those who like precision. from base to tip, a solid, heavy length that curves slightly upward. just enough to hit that spot inside you that makes stars explode behind your eyes.

then the thickness is where it gets intimidating. his girth is... substantial. you can't wrap your hand around him. can't close your fingers. your thumb and middle finger won't even touch when you try. 

he's the thickness of a wrist, lowkey more thicker than that—and the first time you see him, you'll actually say “ah hell no” out loud before your brain catches up.

like he curves slightly to the left. just a little. just enough to be noticeable. and when he's inside you, that curve presses against your walls in a way that feels careful, like his body knows exactly where to go

for more details, he's not shaved bare, there's a neat patch of red hair at the base, the same color as the hair on his head. trimmed, tidy, intentional. and when he's aroused which is often, around you, his balls draw up tight against his body, heavy and full.

he knows all of this. he's measured, cataloged and studied.

"purely for research purposes," he'll say, when you catch him looking at his own notes.

you don't believe him but you also don't argue.

for example: 

the first time you see it, you're in his tent.

his mask is off, pushed aside, forgotten and his clothes are somewhere on the floor. he's standing in front of you, naked, and you're still fully dressed, because he wanted to look at you first.

"your turn," he says, cyan eyes tracking down your body.

you swallow. "can i... can i see you first?"

he tilts his head. "see me?"

"all of you."

there's a pause at first and then he steps back. "very well."

he doesn't pose. doesn't preen. just stands there, hands at his sides, letting you look.

and you do.

you look at his chest first, his red skin covered in old scars, the stitches that mark where he's cut himself open in the name of curiosity. you look at his arms, long, elegant, corded with lean muscle. you look at his hips, narrow, sharp, with that v-shape that makes your mouth water.

and then you look down, you freeze.

"what's wrong, sweetie?” he asks, voice calm. but there's a tension in his jaw. a flicker of red in his eyes.

"nothing," you say. "i just—“ you swallow. "you're massive.”

"i'm aware."

"no, i mean—“ you gesture vaguely at his crotch. "big. like... really big. very above average for humans.”

his head tilts. "is that a problem?"

you look at him. at his face, at his eyes, at the way his hands are fidgeting at his sides like he's nervous. “uhh i don't know," you admit. "let me... let me see."

he steps closer and you reach out.

your hand wraps around him or tries to. your fingers don't even come close to touching. there's a full inch of space between your thumb and middle finger, and he's heavy in your palm, warm and thick and alive.

"oh," you breathe.

"oh?" his voice is strained. "is that... good oh or bad oh?"

you look up at him. his eyes are red now, fully red, glowing in the dim lighting, and his breathing has gone shallow.

"good oh," you say. "definitely good oh."

his hips twitch. just a little. just enough that you feel him pulse against your palm. "you're going to need preparation," he says, voice barely controlled. "a lot of it. i won't fit otherwise."

"then prepare me."

his eyes flash. and then he's on his knees in front of you, pulling your pants down, pushing you back onto the examination table.

"spread your legs," he says, already reaching for a jar of lube. "i'm going to be thorough." and he is. he spends what feels like hours opening you up, one finger, then two, then three, just stretching, preparing you, watching your face the whole time to make sure you're not in pain.

"tell me if it's too much," he says, "i need to know."

"it's not too much."

"yet." he adds a fourth finger. you gasp. your back arches off the table. "there," he murmurs, watching you squirm. "you're taking it so well. such a good specimen."

"doctor—“

"not yet." his voice is firm. "you're not ready yet. i won't risk hurting you."

he keeps going. keeps stretching and watching. and when he finally lines himself up at your entrance, when you feel the head press against you, thick and warm and overwhelming,

"breathe," he says. "and look at me."

you do.

his eyes are red. just hungry for more of you but his hands are gentle, and his movements are slow, and he watches your face like he's afraid you'll shatter.

"push back if it's too much," he says. "i'll stop. i promise."

and then he pushes inside.

just the head. just a fraction of an inch. “f-fuck, holy shit…” you're already gasping, already clawing at his shoulders, already wondering how all of that is supposed to fit inside you.

"breathe," he says again. "just breathe. we have all night."

he waits, lets you adjust, watches your face and then he pushes deeper.

y = yearning

how much do they crave intimacy? how often do they think about it?

okay, so doctor has two sides.

 two different answers. two different hungers.

first the calm side: cyan

controlled and manageable when his eyes are cyan, the doctor doesn't need sex. not the way some people do. he can go weeks without thinking about it, weeks lost in his research, his plants, his experiments. his heavy metal music doesn't look at him with hungry eyes and whisper his name like a prayer.

so he forgets. sometimes. for a little while.

he buries himself in work. in data. in the quiet hum of his greenhouse.

and then he sees you.

and it all comes rushing back.

not enough to distract him. not enough to consume him. but enough that his eyes linger on your throat a little too long. enough that his fingers twitch at his sides, remembering the way your skin feels under them. enough that he has to look away, just for a second to collect himself.

"fascinating," he murmurs, more to himself than to you. "you have an effect on me. i haven't decided if i like it."

he does like it. he just won't admit it.

then his red side, is just filled with hungry

desperate and consuming when his eyes are red, he thinks about you constantly. not in a gentle way. not in a sweet, sentimental, pierrot-style yearning. in a hungry way. in a way that makes his hands shake and his breath catch and his teeth ache.

he thinks about the way you sound when he's inside you, you know the gasps, the moans, the way you say his name like it's the only word you remember.

he thinks about the way you feel, just warm and soft and alive beneath his hands, around his fingers, under him. he thinks about the way you look at him,, not with fear, not with disgust, but with trust. with want. with something that looks dangerously close to love.

and these episodes? they're distracting.

he'll be in the middle of something, like watering his plants, organizing his specimens, listening to the radio and suddenly his mind is full of you. full of images he can't shake. full of sounds he can't unhear.

he'll find himself staring at nothing, red eyes glowing, his work forgotten in his hands.

“…shit,” he'll mutter, shaking his head. but he doesn't stop thinking about you.

he just can't. 

and eventually, after an hour, after a day, after however long he can force himself to wait, he'll go find you.

not because he wants to. because he needs to, the hunger is too loud and the only thing that quiets it is you.

"you're distracting," he'll say, pushing you against the nearest surface. "i can't focus. i can't think. all i can do is—"

his mouth finds your throat. his hands find your hips. his body presses against yours like he's trying to crawl inside your skin.

"—this."

and you'll let him. because his eyes are red and his voice is desperate and somewhere underneath all that hunger, he's still him. still your doctor. still the monster who looks at you like you're the only thing keeping him sane.

"inefficient," he'll breathe against your collarbone. "this is so inefficient."

but he doesn't stop and neither do you.

z = zone

what are their erogenous zones? where do they love to be touched?

doctor is... sensitive. more than he lets on. more than he'd ever admit.

his body is a map of places that make him shiver, and he's spent years pretending they don't exist. ignoring them. studying them like they belong to someone else.

but with you? with you? he can't hide.

1. his throat

the doctor's throat is achingly sensitive. the column of it, long and pale, where his pulse beats just beneath the surface. when you kiss him there, like when you drag your lips down the side of his neck, when you bite just hard enough to leave a mark—his breath catches. his hands tighten on your waist. his eyes shining red.

"again," he breathes. "do that again."

and when you do, when you suck a bruise into the space just below his jaw, he’ll makes a sound, strangled and desperate.

"fascinating," he murmurs, but his voice is shaking. "i didn't know i could —"

he doesn't finish the sentence. he's too busy pulling you closer.

2. his hands

specifically, the spaces between his fingers. the webs of skin that stretch when he spreads them wide. when you press your mouth there, when you kiss each knuckle, when you suck one of his fingers into your mouth and look at him while you do it—his whole body tenses.

"what are you—" his voice cracks as you swirl your tongue around his finger. his hips twitch. "...doing," he finishes, barely audible.

"research," you say, popping his finger out of your mouth. "you're not the only one who gets to study things."

his eyes are red now. fully red. and he's staring at you like you've just rewritten every hypothesis he's ever had.

3. his inner thighs

this one is cruel. and you know it. and he knows you know it.

his thighs are a battlefield. the skin there is just nice and thick, somehow more delicate and responsive.

when you kiss the inside of his thigh, when you drag your tongue up the soft skin, when you bite just hard enough to make him flinch, he falls apart.

"you're torturing me," he says, voice strained.

"is it working?"

his eyes are red. his chest is heaving. his hands are fisted in the sheets. "yes sweeite.”

so you keep going. you kiss and bite and lick until he's trembling beneath you, until he's begging for more.

"please," he gasps. "please, i can’t—“

"you can."

"i can’t—“

you press your mouth to the spot where his thigh meets his hip. he bucks off the bed.

"...okay," he breathes. "maybe i can."

sooo, in summarized about doctor!

and that was exhausting. (this took me four days to write and to figure out with numerous amounts of research, so rusty at this 😭)

but there you have it, everyones precious doctor, laid bare. 

every kink, every quirk, every fascinating contradiction.

now if you'll excuse me, i have assisting I need to return to, the usual paperwork and to prepare for next time. take care of yourself, plaything. and maybe... maybe go thank the doctor for being so interesting.

p.s. if you actually send this to him, he'll probably study it. take notes. categorize.

...do it. i want to see what happens.

♤ — 𝓉𝒻𝒸 𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉

iyayadonna, all rights reserved. — ⋆˚ ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ꩜ 。⋆ .ᐟ

Other Versions:

Satan | Leviathan | Beelzebub

The birthday of Niflheim’s lazy king has finally arrived. Assuming this would be another regular day, you were invited to a group chat earlier that was filled with well-known figures in the country. Beleth brought up how his majesty’s special occasion can be used to boost his exposure. Maybe spice things up a bit.

From taking charming photos of Belphegor to planning a delicious cake, chances of a popularity increase should rise a decent amount.

You suddenly had a few things in mind for his birthday, however. A small collection of gifts along with candies can brighten Belphie’s mood — but don’t expect too much.

Those gifts you might ask? Well, let’s just say you were able to find the nearest — or farthest — bookstore available that includes an assortment of manga. And what if there was a doll maker who was more than happy to design a mini version of him with intricate packaging? Lucky for you, these were free of charge.

After gathering the gifts, you headed straight to Niflheim. The nobles must have prepared everything by now, still waiting for your arrival. You walk past a few devils whispering about Belphegor’s occasion as they wallow in their stress through a regular workday. A spot in your heart felt bad for them. It would be a miracle if they had time to relax for the day.

Just a few more steps before the castle, you feel butterflies in your stomach while hoping for the best.

“He wouldn’t mind these gifts, right? I’m sure of it!”

And upon entering, a small group of nobles appeared right in the hallway. They immediately catch your presence starting with Andrealphus.

“Oh! Is that you? We’ve been waiting for your arrival!” He happily greets you.

You approach the group and smile back at Andre, “Hey! I just thought I could stop by a few shops and find some gifts.”

“Really? What are they? Can you tell me?”

You take a glimpse from your bags of items, “A collection of manga, candy, and a couple of dolls I got someone to make!”

Pulling out one of them, you present a figure resembling Belphegor. The black and white box was decorated with a pattern similar to his tattoo along with his sigil and triple sixes, and a bow tied to the box’s corner. Gusion inspected the gift closely, annoyed and tired just by looking at it.

“Sigh, definitely somethin’ his majesty would want.”

Beleth giggled at the doll’s cuteness, “Well ain’t that adorable? Looks just like him, too!” He then presents a cake that he baked earlier, “Here, whatcha think? It’s a licorice cake!”

The licorice-flavored treat possesses a monochromatic appearance with a ring of chocolate-drizzled strawberries and white pearls as toppings. The idea of a cake made with licorice was new to you, and the opportunity to try it couldn’t be passed up.

“It looks great, Beleth! Though I haven’t tried this type of cake before.”

Bathin studied over a couple of posters that were made to spread all over Hell. Taking a peek yourself, the designs were made to look appealing, dreamy-like with a white vignette effect for them. Their text read “Birthday wishes to the King of Niflheim” in a fancy cursive. They were of Belphegor’s face and chest, a couple of pairs of hands forming a heart in front of each. You can tell they belonged to Beleth and Agares from the chat before.

“These should do, Gusion. Good work,” Bathin stacks both posters in his hand, “Let’s get these taken care of, then.”

Gusion gathers a handful of posters before heading out, “C’mon, Andre. We need to regroup with the others.”

“Alright! Have fun you two!”

You and Beleth stay in the castle with a few other residents. Both of you chatter your way through the halls, bringing up the king’s birthday in general and his habit of being lethargic.

As time went by since meeting Belphegor, he was always a shroud of mystery to you. Everyone knew he was constantly lazy, staying in bed for the most part and sleeping peacefully. Still, there had to be more secrets you don’t know about, right? His past, and those powers. You wished he actually had the energy to tell you these things. Even most of the kings didn’t know him enough.

Beleth lends you a hand into his majesty’s room, holding the door open like a gentleman. You remain quiet in case Belphie’s narcolepsy kicks in. As you were getting close to his bed, Belphegor lay there undisturbed, heavy snoring echoing through the space. You put the bags aside to sit next to him.

You quietly whisper, “Belphegor…I came by to see you.”

His eyelids flinched a little while his brain was resting. You wait patiently and pet his dark strands. Belphegor cranes his head back to feel your hand.

“Belphie, I bought you some birthday gifts,” you cooed again.

Your soft words slowly awaken the king, eyes opening halfway before you.

“Mm…hey, darlin’…”

Belphie yawns and stretches his spine. He combs back his hair and sits up to your level. The king noticed a couple of bags placed on the bed, and a smiling Beleth holding the cake.

“Y’all been spoilin’ me today, huh?” The devil king crosses his arms, “You don’t gotta do all o’ this tiresome work fer me.”

“Huh? But we wanted to, Belphie. Your birthday deserves to be celebrated at least, and it doesn’t have to be anything extravagant.”

You lift two loaded bags full of books for him to see. He raises a brow curiously, having a certain belief that you brought in a solid amount of manga. He wasn’t wrong, but it was something more than that.

“Besides, I got you a nice collection of manga you might like!” You pull out a few books with glee.

After the books caught his eye, Belphegor’s face turned more awake than ever. Never in his mind did he believe you would gift him such a haul of Berserk manga. He takes one of the books to examine its detailed covers.

“Sugar…”

He can feel his heart race, flipping the many fresh pages of the masterful art inside. It wasn’t manga created in Hell, but one of the most popular works from Earth. A story so timeless that it received widespread recognition from every corner, especially among manga lovers.

Belphegor closes the book as he still holds onto it. He turns to you with a smile on his face. Just the expression itself makes your heart warm up.

“Beleth, give us time alone, will ya?”

“Oh? Of course, your majesty. I’ll give y’all a slice of cake each!”

The noble was about to walk off to do the favor until he was interrupted by you.

“Wait! Is it okay if Belphegor and I share a plate? I’m not sure if I’m interested in the cake yet…”

You turn to the king’s direction and earn a nod from him. Beleth accepts your request before heading off to handle the dessert in the castle’s kitchen.

“I never expected such a thoughtful gift,” the king lifts his hand to your head, tousling your hair as a way of praising, “Ya got some good taste, don’t ya?”

“O-oh! Uh, well I-“

“I’ve been needin’ to read this. Heard it’s got some good characters, too.”

Belphie’s fingers trace over the book’s detailed cover like a precious artifact he longed for. Deep in his heart, he cherished manga as if they were not just books to read, but a way to escape the annoyances and stress from reality. The compelling writing and art itself are what make the king happy. The way Belphegor sits there to admire his new book in silence was genuinely heart-warming.

You dive into another bag and pull out the two boxes of figures: one containing Belphegor, and the other modeled after yourself. His eyes immediately caught their attention.

“I found someone to make a couple of figures that look like us, too!” You hand the dolls over as he examines them, “What do you think? They’re cute, right?”

Belphie’s eyes gleamed in awe. Every detail was crafted in careful intricacy. He saw the mini versions of you two as inseparable, bound to stay together forever. The king hasn’t experienced this amount of emotion in his life.

He stayed silent in his thoughts, “This human really cares about my birthday, huh?”

The set of dolls was a very thoughtful birthday present, but he had another idea in mind — something that might make your heart melt a little.

“Mm, here.”

He hands over one of the dolls back to you: the King of Niflheim himself. You sat there confused as to why. Probably because he would rather keep a figure of you than of his mini lookalike, or it was for a different reason alone. Assuming this was him being in your debt, you were thinking about reconsidering the decline of the gift.

“Uh…wait, are you sure you don’t want it? The doll maker put a lot of effort into it. It’s supposed to be special,” your voice sounded down at Belphegor’s refusal.

“It’s not what ya think, darlin’.”

He lifts your chin to meet your puppy-eyed look. Giggling at the reaction, Belphegor caresses the bottom of your lip for a simple reassurance.

“I wanna make this as a way to better remember each other.”

Your heart suddenly flutters within your chest, your eyes blinking away the welling up tears. Fingers hold onto the box tightly. Never in a million years did you expect to hear something this sweet from Belphie. Even when he was constantly a walking mess at times, he always had a soft spot reserved just for you.

“Belphie…I- you’re kidding, right?!” You reply in disbelief.

“Why would I kid around like that?”

You couldn’t tell if this was real. This was a new side of the devil king you had never witnessed at all, and you were more than embracing it. You wanted to pounce into a hug right then and there. There weren’t any more words you could think of at the moment.

“Hey…”

Belphegor grabs your arm without an ounce of force, beckoning you to move closer.

“Let’s read the manga together, yeah?”

While a warm redness covers your face, you accept his offer and scoot next to his side. Belphegor, however, patted his lap for you to sit instead. You adjust yourself under the covers comfortably near his warmth. He takes the first volume of the manga and opens the beginning pages.

“I’ll handle the pages fer ya.”

You lean on his body as you happily focus on the story. Within his calm demeanor, Belphie can feel the excitement rush through his body. What a perfect time to start a new story, especially when you were in his arms.

It was a precious moment in his life that he didn’t expect at least once. Belphegor never cared about his birthday since he only treated it as another ordinary day of endless sleeping. Instead, he was wakeful now because of you making everything special for him.

The devil presses his lips to your head. It wasn’t a standard kiss — more so a soft, quiet smooch. His nose buries itself in your strands to take in your familiar scent and nuzzles.

“Thank you, sugar.”

You and Belphegor continue reading in the silent atmosphere. This was one of the rare cases when the devil king didn’t sleep for the majority of the day. As bothersome as being alive was, he at least has someone who makes his life worth living.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡

‪ ⚠︎ Plagiarizing, altering, AI, etc. my work in any way, shape, or form is prohibited ⚠︎

Lucifer comes and goes as he pleases, but he always makes sure to knock before coming into your room. It’s become a routine by this point, for Lucifer to come by in the middle of the night, crawl into your bed, and sleep until the morning comes.

It’s pretty much become a thing that brings you comfort. There’s something nice about having someone you actually trust dreaming in the same bed as you. Reminded you of all the times you, Minhyeok and Ra-on would share the same tent back when all of you used to camp every other month or so.

But, that was another routine lost, and one you’re rather sure that you’re not going to get that back.

And here you both are, you sitting up against the bed frame as Lucifer lazily lifted himself up on his elbows. He yawned, jaws wide and tongue flicking over the points of his teeth.

“Can you open your mouth for me?”

You’ve seen his teeth poking past his lips many a time, but you’ve been meaning to take a look at them up close.

Lucifer raised an eyebrow, and you expected him to ask why, but instead he rose, leaned his head forward, and let his jaw go slack. He’s more agreeable in the morning, huh?

“Thanks,” you said, tilting his head back with a finger under his chin.

Sharp thing, all of them. Looking ready to sink into delicate flesh all for the purpose of ripping and tearing. His fangs looked eternally dyed in that red color, as though he spent the night feasting on something bloody. But no, he was here with you the entire time.

You tucked strands of his hair behind his ear, and Lucifer lolled his tongue out.

“Put your tongue back in,” you laughed out, lightly flicking the muscle. “I just want to look at your teeth.”

Lucifer blinked at you, almost lovingly as he swirled his tongue once over your nail, then pulled it back in. You think you’re putting him in a mood. His breathing is starting to lean more into panting.

You tilted his chin down, coaxing him to lower his jaw to get a better view of his bottom teeth. You tapped a nail against the front most tooth. The sharp point of it accidentally slipped under, and you flinched when it almost went too far in.

“Ow.” It didn’t hurt, but you couldn’t help the instinct.

Lucifer’s eyes widened and his hands immediately cradle your wrist. He didn’t say anything as he closely examined each of your finger for even a single hint of a cut. He furrowed his brow as his mouth clicked closed.

“I’m not hurt, I just poked your tooth weirdly. Slipped under the nail for a second.” You didn’t stop him from smoothing his palm against your own, as though committing the feeling of your skin to memory. You slipped your fingers between his own, pulled back, and pushed in again. A small habit. It always brings a softer light in Lucifer’s eyes. Something about your hands always gets to him. “Mind if I look again?”

You haven’t even gotten to the red-tipped fangs.

Lucifer had an almost drunk air around him, heavily leaning against his other arm, thoughts probably slow to connect to one another as he focused entirely on you. He crawled forward and pressed a gentle kiss on your inner wrist. His half-lidded eyes practically glowed.

“Well?” You asked with a half-smile. Lucifer lips nipped at your forearm, aiming higher and higher until his face was fully in your shoulder. His body pressed against yours. “I guess that answers that, huh?”

“Mm-hmm.” Lucifer was slowly laying his weight upon you, his legs parting to fully seat himself on your lap.

You snapped the band of his underwear and laughed when he jumped.

“Alright, alright,” you said, brushing away the curling strands of his hair just to get a better look at the flush on his cheeks. He fully buried himself in your neck, arms loosely wrapping around you. “Guess we’re cuddling.”

“Mm-hmm.”

Shame. You were hoping to have a walk in the early morning, when there wasn’t a crowd of devils gathering in the park you found.

“Want to use my leg to take care of that morning wood of yours?”

He snuggled deeper into your body. “Mm-hmm. In a bit.”

"Hmm? What is it about me that turns you on?" You leaned against your hand, idly stroking the side of Lucifer's face as his back rested against your torso. His skin was fully flushed, mouth hanging slightly agape. He turned to try and capture your fingers, but you pulled away. "Come on, you can't avoid the question by stuffing your mouth. Tell me. I won't be angry."

You busied yourself with Lucifer's buttons, popping them open just enough to press patterns into the valley of his chest. A pleasant hum rumbled beneath your fingers, and finally his voice formed words.

"Your… your voice," he said, as if you had a vice around his neck. You've heard of devils being driven mad by lust, but somehow it never connected that such a thing was real. You can't deny it now, not when you see this devil before you ripping holes into the sheets below just to keep from touching himself. You can practically see his every twitch and throb through his pants. Any other devil probably wouldn't have as strong a self restraint as him.

"My voice is all it takes huh?" you sighed, then cupped Lucifer's chin, guiding him up until he can no longer look away from you, "that's cute, actually."

Stray hairs stuck to his skin as Lucifer was overcome with full body shudders. You couldn't help but trail a finger over the pulse on his neck, just to feel the fluttering beats of his heart.

"Mm-hmm, very cute." You back away before Lucifer could lunge for a kiss. His eye narrowed to a light glare, still refusing to give him any mercy. Funny. "You know, I was always fascinated by your eyes." You brushed away the hairs to see them clearly, allowing him to snuggle up into your palm. "They're filled with an endless patience and a soft, soft love for the world around them. I never have to worry about doing anything wrong just for being my stubborn myself. And I find them wonderful. I find you wonderful, Lucifer."

Lucifer has lived too long to be shocked by such words, but they softened him nonetheless. His face was still overtaken by a deep flush, with a small smile that looked almost shaky. "…you love to try and make me cry, don't you?"

You softly laughed, "Yeah yeah, but you know I meant every word."

A breath shuddered it's way out of his throat, "I know. That… also affects me, in many shameful ways."

"A lot of things about me affect you, I see," you readjusted yourself and leaned back against your hands, "show me exactly how. You have my permission now."

His pupils dilated so quickly, you thought his iris would disappear. You feel bad for the poor devil that will probably have to repair his clothing. Tore through that poor thing like it was nothing. And what a nice snake design it had.

Just to further mess with him, nudged his moaning mouth wider and pressed your thumb flat against his tongue. His fangs grazed against your skin, as if Lucifer was entertaining the notion of clamping down and never letting go, but never will go through with it without your say so.

It's nice, never having to worry about you suddenly being subjected to random whims and then being forgotten about once that boredom was sated.

Here was Lucifer, a devil king that was essentially untouchable, a king that forces the other kings to hold a level of caution about them, and a king that was currently masturbating with your permission.

Satan:

You know, Satan thought that, the more alcohol you get into your system, the more…hungry you will get for violence. He likes it when you're tipsy, because when you're tipsy, you're bitey. You don't hesitate to sink your teeth deep into his muscles until even his very veins crunch under your incisors. Blood becomes a flavor enhancer to you. When you're like that, you seem no different than any of his citizens. Made Satan feel proud, in a weird way, that he can draw this side out of you.

Right now, however, he was just feeling bothered. And horny. Because you weren't biting down on his neck as he sat on your lap. You were nibbling, always stopping short of piercing his skin, leaving indents instead of wounds. He slid on your lap, hoping that you would take bites in other places now that you were plastered, but instead you were testing his limits. His nails clawed into the wood of the bar behind you, his teeth creaking under the force of his jaw, and legs trembling to keep from closing around your hips and potentially breaking them.

At least you probably won't remember this. Satan really hopes you won't remember the way he could not get off your lap.

Mammon:

You tugged at his robes and tested the material between your fingers, not really registering the fact that you were pinching his skin along side. Well, you did notice at first, but you have long since succumbed to the drunken haze and are just entirely focused on the way his clothes feel in your hands. Mammon didn't mind indulging in your curiosity. It is, after all, a very new side to you that he hasn't seen before. One that you probably kept very closely tied up inside. And now it was released, so no matter what you do, Mammon will not stop you.

You grabbed the edges of his robes and pulled. His sash became undone, and for whatever reason, Mammon has never felt more exposed. It felt…almost shameful that this excited him, because your gaze was empty of any heated wanting. You were powered by alcohol and curiosity.

"Where's the tag on this thing" Your breath, made heavier with the alcohol, wafted over his head. Maybe if Mammon held still long enough, you'll try and search for that tag in his pants next?

Leviathan:

Nothing. You were drunk out of your mind, and you were doing nothing. Well, Leviathan couldn't hope for a better result. At least like this, in this celebration that he's arranged, you won't ruin the atmosphere he so wanted. You're behaving, but just barely. If you so much as sighed too loudly, Leviathan will have you hanged outside the party doors. Make an example of you.

But how dare you. How dare you let your clothes fall open by a few centimeters. How dare you lick your lips as you caught every single drop of alcohol that slid past. How dare you swallow and make your throat bob, and let out a sigh that was just quiet enough to not break the rule he just made.

You've always been like this. Always intense in the way you presented yourself and yet never careless enough to truly let anyone catch you off guard. Leviathan could very well discipline you. It's well within his right, but that would require him approaching you, and perfect does not seek, it is sought after. And so, all he can do is watch as your fingers idly played with your glass cup.

Beelzebub:

While it was a shame Beelzebub wasn't allowed to make any special mixes for the bar, he will admit, it's fun to catch your shot glass when you slid it his way, fill it up with your choice of beverage, and slide it right back. There weren't any words, you didn't make a big deal out of his being here. It made him feel like a fleeting shadow, of sorts. He was here, at a party that he was probably invited to but forgot, blending in as if he both belonged and yet didn't.

Beelzebub idly chewed on a straw as the music continued to thrum through his body. He wasn't really listening, more focused on the way your tongue moved the ice around for hidden drops of your drink. It took a few seconds for him to realize your glass was back in his hand. Out of boredom, Beelzebub put his straw in the ice and blew hot air in. When there was enough water, Beelzebub noisily slurped it up.

You somehow heard and looked back to him, eyes lightly glazed over. If he concentrated hard enough, he could pretend you were looking at him with heated interested rather than exasperation. He couldn't help but chuckle and wave his straw at you with his lips.

Lucifer:

You haven't stopped touching Lucifer's face. A finger over the bridge of his nose, a caress on his cheek, turning him this way and that just to watch the way his curls bounced against his skin, smoothing hands under his jaw before reaching back and pinching his ears. It didn't annoy him, but it was certainly more than he ever expected. Though, to be fair, he also wasn't expecting you to get drunk. Tipsy yes, but drunk was another matter entirely. Lucifer will remember to prepare something for you when you wake up with the inevitable hangover.

But, for now, Lucifer leaned into your hands as you silently memorized his skin. He didn't mind. He wasn't planning on doing much of anything besides watching his little…family go about their celebration with zest. He did mind a little when he heard the heavy breathing of them behind him, but since you didn't say anything, he won't say anything as well.

Before Lucifer could take a small nip at your fingers, you had found your way into his hair. Tingles scaled down his scalp and over his spine, resting right at the base of his hips. He closed his eyes, if only to savor the feeling further. He ready to fall asleep when you guided his head to your shoulder. Bury your fingers into his hair, or into his bleeding wings, it bring warmth to him all the same.

Asmodeus:

Being who he is, a celebration is never complete without an orgy of some variety, and that doesn't change even while you're present. But, after going through a few glasses, you said you wanted some peace and quiet to enjoy the rest of your drinks, and so he promised you that you will get exactly what you want, in only ten minutes.

And so, instead of bringing his current row of lovers to the edge of ecstasy and then drawing back to have them wanting for more, he spoiled them. He gave them exactly what they wanted, drove them past the peak again, and again, and again, without any shred of mercy. All the while silencing them with his tongue.

And, as he promised, everything was silent save for the music once the ten minutes have passed. Asmodeus was nowhere near satisfied when he sat next to you, but the drink you offered him got his heart near to full bursting. He nearly split the table in two when you glided behind him, gathered his hair, and began to tie it back up. Simple gestures, that's all they were, and it had him wanting to bit into his own knuckles from how squishy his insides felt.

Belphegor:

Only half of Belphegor's torso was actually on the plush chair, the rest of his body was splayed on the floor because he couldn't be bothered to hold any posture.

Perhaps out of boredom, perhaps a small bit of cruelty within you, he wouldn't know, you reach out a leg and kicked his chair right from under his back. It slid out and Belphegor's entire body crumpled to the floor like a lifeless ragdoll. You snorted and slammed your drink down on the table, pounding on your chest as you coughed. A part of him wanted to glare, he was comfy where he was but…

He will admit, this was doing something for him. Putting aside the fact that the floor was kinda comfy in it's own way, it does give him a fun little fantasy to play around with, and probably jack off to later. He's on the floor, clothes spread open and barely hiding his bits while you sit in your chair, pointing and laughing at the mess you've made of him. You lightly pushed at him with a foot, probably asking him to get up, but his dick was convinced that you were rubbing delicious salt in the throbbing wound.

“So they just… pop out? Completely recovered?”

“They do.”

“That…” you scratched the back of your neck, “that sucks.” No point in trying to put it delicately. That straight up sucks.

“I wanted this, so there’s no need for pity.”

“…of course you do.” You pinched the bridge of your nose because what were you expecting? Every angel you’ve ever seen, in and off the battlefield, have this weird… preference, almost, for self-punishment. Penance, as you’ve heard it called. Built into the very foundation of their worship. Hurting themselves because that’s what it means to be faithful, apparently.

Punish yourself enough and you’ll finally be on the right path. You’ll finally be rewarded. And you’ll finally be forgiven.

But you’re not thousands of years old. Nor are you nigh-impossible to kill. And you’ve been around Lucifer long enough to know that all of this comes with the package of befriending him. They’re not your wings, nor do you really know of the full scope of his baggage, so you can’t exactly ask him to stop.

Besides, it’s not really pity. You’re just baffled, at the extent of which angels, and all that grew up with them, are willing to hurt themselves. Is it just built into their being or was it encouraged?

Or… does it just not matter to them?

“Well, you’re gonna rip them out, right?” Because you’ve only ever seen your friend with those stumps bleeding. You kinda just assumed that they were eternally like that, and not that they regrow back spontaneously.

Lucifer made a noise that you knew to be confirmation.

His wings twitched and it made you aware of just how large those feathers of his are, wide and voluminous things that they were. Lucifer was barely waking up and it showed in the minute lag of his responses. In the lazy shuffling and light stretching of his limbs and wings.

It felt weird, witnessing just how at ease Lucifer is with moving his wings when he’s inevitably going to rip them out again. And again, until he finally decides to stop. Also doesn’t help that you’re just used to those bleeding stumps of his. As bad as that is, you have debated asking him if you can just… rip out that one curving bone that just sticks out of him. But you didn’t say anything, cause that’s not your bone.

You got up from your chair, place directly across from Lucifer in this protected greenhouse. “Alrighty, don’t let me stop you.” You’ll probably get Gamigin to get some towels or something. Or run a bath cause it’s going to get bloody. Unless Lucifer’s also the kind to let it all dry into a crusty mess like you’ve seen a lot of other devils do after a battle. Though in his case it would probably be out of a sheer lack of energy. Probably.

“You’re not curious?”

“Hmm? About what?” You were halfway into your jacket.

Lucifer was sitting up straighter, right on the edge of his seat, like he was going to get up to trail after you. He opened his wings wide, feathers barely missing the ground, nearly overtaking his side of this little greenhouse. “My wings.”

“Well, sure. What about it?” Is he…?

“You can feel them.” Not a single twitch to be found, in his voice or face. Said it with the same air he has when giving you his half of his overabundant breakfast. Well, more like pushed it towards you, but still. It applies.

Because his feathers were brushing against your forearms, exposed to the air after you rolled your sleeves up. Back and forth, back and forth, oh so gently. Almost as if he’s testing the waters.

“I… don’t think I’ll mind.” Lucifer’s eyes narrowed, aimed at your arms, your hands, and then you finally got it.

“Alrighty then. Why not? It’s not like I got anywhere to be.” You’re going to go along with it, naturally. Your friend’s trying to poke a hole in this bubble of his. Figure out where his comfort begins and ends, see if anything’s changed at all. And he’s trusting you enough to do that little experiment, even if he’s going about it in a roundabout way.

“Do as you please.” Settling his left wing on your arm, Lucifer tipped his head back and closed his eyes. Seemingly nonchalant, but you know that he’s keeping his senses open.

First thing you did was strum down his primary feathers, like you were walking through a street of wind chimes just waiting to be played with. They bent back, the vane parting in thin strips but blended back into place just as quickly with a subtle shiver. It was minute, but you caught the momentary pause in Lucifer’s breath. The slight lifting of his chest but nothing screamed danger.

And so you walked in a bit, let your fingers play around with the layer above his lowest feathers. Here, the warm of his body, of the shoulders of his wings was clear. Lucifer wasn’t a devil that ran hot. Body temperature was always a little on the cool side, probably on the account of all the blood he’s losing on a daily basis. Even with all the time he spends basking in the sun’s rays, he barely hotter than a tepid glass of water. You parted the layers, let your fingers tap on the quills just because you could, and hummed when Lucifer stretched his wing out some more. Not quite ramrod straight but getting there.

Your friend was still sitting perfectly still, face to the skies and soaking in the sunlight, like his wings were simply acting on their own.

Step by step, you walked down, palm feeling over the muscles twitching beneath all the soft plumage, barely putting any weight into it. You keep a careful eye on Lucifer’s neck, shoulders and hands. Waiting for any kind of change, for any tension that’s liable to snap and make Lucifer want to crawl inwards into his skin.

The tightness was there, but only in ripples. Slight jumps, but the closer you get, the more spaced out they were. Lucifer hasn’t fully relaxed, not with that ghost of a frown, but he’s not about to jump out of his seat to get away.

Finally, you were in front of him. Between his legs and completely covering his sun. Lucifer opened his eyes just as you laid your hands on his most intimate feathers. You tugged his after-feathers, just a light one, and you saw a hint of his teeth bite into his bottom lip.

You pulled back with a smile. “Reached your limit, huh?”

Lucifer took a deep breath in, and breathed out on your shirt. He hummed with a nod.

“Okay then.” You shrugged your shoulder and made to back off, but you spotted Lucifer lifting his hands. He placed them above your wrists, then caressed upwards, smoothing his palms over your skin. His fingers slid inside your rolled up sleeves and he gripped the back of your arms. “Hmm.”

Lucifer lingered on your face, the tight corners his lips finally relaxing. He pulled you in and embraced you with both his arms and wings.

“I’m not gonna be moving for a while, am I?”

“Hmm.”

You noticed that Lucifer has been sighing lately. A bone-deep sigh that starts as soon as he wakes up. Reminded you of those old dogs that would settle their heavy heads against their paws. Lucifer looked just as sad. Well, as sad as he could look, considering how good he is at keeping his face blank.

And so, that morning, while Lucifer laid on his chest in your bed, feeling heavier than he has ever felt, you decided to massage him. Just a simple pressing of your fingers and palms against his back. Perhaps your hands can't do anything against his muscles, you know little about how a devil's body works, but you can tell Lucifer's enjoys it.

Lucifer, after ten minutes of you pressing around his spine, gave another sigh. One that anyone releases when they finally found a comfortable position to sleep in.

"Feels nice, huh?" you said, knowing that you're right.

Lucifer made a noise, a little too lost in your touch to reply verbally.

"Alrighty, let me get your lower back." You settled on his thighs and snorted when you felt his whole body twitch. He tensed up all over again when you began to dig into his waist. "Okay, settle down. It's just my hands."

His torn wings fluttered, flecks of blood splattering on his shirt. You began to press against his skin, making sure not to dig in too deeply. Keeping a calm and even pace just so you don't tire yourself out too quickly. Devil's have near infinite stamina, you can only imagine it takes just as long to get centuries of building stress out.

As the minutes went by and the sun continued it's brilliance in your room, Lucifer slowly began to change his position. His hips slowly got higher and higher. Curving his waist, lifting it in hopes that your hands would fall lower.

You didn't need to see his face to know what he wants.

And, you being you, didn't want to give it to him. So instead, you adjusted yourself and clapped your hips against his. Lucifer's body jutted forward, back tensing up as he continued to face away from you. Again, you didn't need to see his face. You can tell he's biting his lip just by the tension in his jaw.

You wanted to laugh when Lucifer swiveled his ass back. Carefully, as if experimenting if he's allowed to do that or not. You responded in kind, wordlessly giving him permission to grind against you. He never fails to be cute in your eyes, and cute things deserve to be spoiled, right?

Lucifer's breathing got deeper, shivering as his skin became glittery with sweat. One hand gripped the pillow below his head, and the other settled on the wooden headboard. As if the simple action of grinding his ass against your hips was too much for him. You were both fully clothed, and yet he seemed a few minutes away from losing it entirely.

He really is adorable.

"Haha, so how about this?" You pulled Lucifer's arm, forcing his back into a lovely arc, ass further squishing against your grinds. It's always nice to see just how well he filled out his pants. Nice and full, a plump thing that juggles.

Lucifer's grip tightened on the wood, but the most that came out was a series of little hums. Too lost to say anything, fully into the pace you've set. Loving it, even.

You let go, letting Lucifer flop onto the sheets before you bent over him to grab a pillow.

"Alright alright, let me help you out." You shook your head before guiding his legs open, "this should feel nice. You trust me, right?"

You stuffed the pillow between his legs, take a second to listen to whimpers that rumbled and died in his throat, before setting a brutal pace. Making sure that every thrust and grind hit just right for him.

"I can bite your ear," you suggested over his cheek like it was a casual day at a cafe, as though you weren't rocking Lucifer's hips into oblivion on this pillow, "or your neck, shoulder, maybe even your thighs?"

The headboard splintered under Lucifer's fingers, a harsh hiss steaming through his clenched teeth. It ended in a quiet, almost shy whimper.

You may be feeling a little evil today. Lucifer cuts a powerful yet relaxed figure, one that speaks of his quiet confidence towards the world, and towards the people that surround him. He wears his pride in the same way he wears his love: with gentle dignity and without shame.

So can you really be blamed for hooking your fingers through his black thong and yanking it deep into his ass?

Lucifer's panting died with a choked whine. He buried his head in his arms, black fingernails digging into his scalp as you watched his back shudder almost violently. You caressed his waist under his shirt, less to comfort him and more to admire just how small it was. It was made for grabbing.

And despite this clear desperation hanging on his shoulders, on his hips, Lucifer still stopped when you did. You can feel his every muscle twitching, and you also felt it when he suppressed it. Following your rhythm, as he always does. You hummed a nameless tune, plucked from a memory of your days as a bouncer in a night club, and waited for Lucifer to calm down.

His face had a delicate blush when he finally looked at you over his shoulder. His mouth parted open, hair curled over his eyes. His waiting, wanting eyes, begging for something. Begging for you.

You let go of his underwear. You trailed your fingers over the column of his neck, stopping at the side of his jaw. You cupped his cheek and pushed his face towards yours. His own hand came up, grasping your shoulder as if you couldn't have kissed him fast enough.

There's always something so…entertainingly desperate about the way he craves your kisses. He liked it when you touched him, pinned him or cuddled him during the lazy hours of the day. But out of everything, you kissing him was what got him clinging to you most.

You pulled away, only to laugh when you felt an insistent, almost bratty tug on your shirt. Lucifer's eyes were narrowed, scary to anyone that didn't know him as well as you do. You can see the little sparkles in them. How adorable.

"You'll get another one as soon as I feel like it, okay? Just be patient and you'll be rewarded." You carded through his messy, sweaty hair, fully knowing what Lucifer's response was going to be.

You smiled at his small nod and he buried his face once more with a small sigh, both parts exasperated and miffed.

There is little you know about Hell itself. You know it's filled with devils that indulge and encourage desires, to the point of ignoring anything and everything that bores them. You know they follow a hierarchy that's bound to cannibalize itself as soon as this tentative truce breaks. And you also know that Hell is frustratingly ignorant about human beings despite their access to them.

You've seen the libraries of the devil kings when they manage to whisk off Ra-on. Labyrinthine things, and the section that's dedicated to humans? Long out of date, and very, very small. As if it wasn't a study worth looking into.

Humans are not worth it if they can't be fucked. Those libraries you've visited? Filled with books written by devils that tell you which humans are worth targeting and which should be ignored. Those devils that initially expressed interest in you? You're less than wind, not really worth acknowledging.

And so you ask Asmodeus, the very embodiment of this carnal freedom every devil indulges in, this on one random afternoon on a blanket you brought, "What's your reason, for your visits on Earth?"

This morning was…a time. Ra-on decided to sleep in so you decided to wander around. Enjoy the morning. It was quiet and calm, at least, no battles to worry about so far, and little sign of any invasions as far as you can tell. But, quiet days tend to make things louder. Make your own human existence louder. Make the fact that you're not quite…welcome here louder. And when you're not welcome, you're not really treated like a person.

So, you tucked yourself away, found a part of this city that was calm and wasn't strangling itself to block the sun. Here, you can pretend you're back home for a little bit.

Of course, it wasn't long before you got a visitor. Asmodeus, of all people. He didn't say anything. Merely settled down next to you, sunglasses on his nose as he unwrapped his robes to the open air. He's odd, and predictable to you to an extent.

He's also never failed to draw the chaos away from you when you simply aren't fit to handle it. He told you of this spot too. You suppose he needed his quiet time.

"I've met and mated with every devil in any kingdom imaginable, I thought I saw all that there was to see, and humans, with their infinitely short lives, never fail to surprise me." Mated, of course he'd say that. "Devils are slow to change, you know. While there is delight to be taken in familiar flavors, I have never been a devil that's been satisfied with routine."

"Really now?" Devils, stagnant? Well, you haven't been here long enough to know. Because too many devils are unwilling to engage with you. You want answers? You have to be entertaining. You have to be cutey or pathetic or worshiping. Do something that isn't you, and only then will they say something.

...and that makes Asmodeus all the more odd to you, in the same way Lucifer is.

"And so, I scurried off towards the world of humans. And my, what a trip that was. Eye opening really. That gap within myself when I realized how little I knew of humans? It hungered to be filled." The sparkle in his eye and the wagging of his tongue was a common sight to you. Irritating on some days, and a little irritating now. "Of course, once I had a taste, how could I not fall in love?"

But, not as much. More, funny than it is irritating.

You raised an eyebrow. "Love, huh? Having a hard time believing that."

Asmodeus's face relaxed, settling into a smile that was just the slightest bit smarmy. "Devils can't lie," so he sang.

"I know," you sighed out, a whisper of a smile on your lips. Then, you felt a sharp nail poke your cheek. "…what is it now?"

"You're smiling," his voice was low and giddy, as if he was telling you a juicy secret.

"…I am. And?" Why state the obvious?

"And? I'm just enjoying the simple joy of it. Is that wrong?" Asmodeus continued to tap at your cheek even though your face was back to being as blank as ever. He was still smiling, still looking at you with an odd fondness that you're still not used to seeing any devil that wasn't Lucifer.

"Nah, not really. Can you stop touching me now?" The sun's nice and the blankets too comfortable for you to want to move.

"Will you bite me if I don't?" Ah, there's it is, the classic dip into sensuality as soon as the prospect of your bites come up. You don't need to look at him to know his cheeks were flushed, mind hazed over with fantasies of your teeth on his neck. And other places. Asmodeus still hasn't stop trying to goad you into biting him.

"I'll leave if you don't," Only then did Asmodeus relent, lips pulled into a frown.