A rare satisfaction, Tardif is content to stay in the moment, savoring the masochist's dick in his ass probably more than he should.
He keeps track, the number of times he plays submissive, making sure to keep it under the number of times he tops, a personal vendetta made manifest by invisible tally marks.
His thoughts are interrupted, Damian nosing around his neck, the drape of his cowl still covering his skin, but there are some things that a mask can't disguise, the musk of his loins for instance.
More wayward kisses hindered by anonymous cloth, following the seam of his gear, although; the brute can't feel the full effect of their heat, still protected by layers of armor.
“I could make you cum again,” the sensual priest whispers, a vivid imagination betwixt a suggestive thrust of his hips, “You know I am good for it.”
Resentful, the begrudging warrior plans to make the flagellant pay for his transgressions, laying the groundwork for his triumphant comeback.
“Yer turn,” the bounty hunter insists, not the first time he’s said it tonight.
A deep, reverberating chuckle in answer, followed by more infuriating gullibility.
“Do you mean me or the dice?”
Sarcastic twit.
Tardif wriggles his ass, meaning to buck him off, but it works just the opposite, enticing his partner to push in closer.
“Oh, do that again.”
A blissful exhale, hardness pulsing back to life.
“Get. Off.”
Despite the imminent threat of his voice, his partner gives him no quarter, a snarky retort for his trouble.
“I plan to.”
Cocky brat.
The bounty hunter goes still, hoping to wait him out.
“Stone-walling again,” the other sighs, wrapping arms around his belly, above the navel, a battered chin resting on a studded shoulder, “That trick won't work.”
“Payback,” declares the brute.
“And what's your plan,” tuts the other, unabashedly charmed, “asking me nicely?”
Tardif expected more resistance, glaring at the masochist with a coquettish side-eye, deciding to take the road less traveled, a battle with words instead of his fist.
“Would that work?”
“Try saying ‘please.’”
A long, extensive contemplation before a hushed, bemused, “... please?”
Shifting movement, a groan of disappointment, Damian leaving his warmth, two pieces once joined now parting, the room feeling colder.
Finally free, Tardif takes action, removing his boots, their presence more of a tangled snare, pants too, leaving himself open from the waist down.
A gloved hand pushes against the flagellant's chest, grasping at his crown of scars, forcing a hiss as he stumbles back, the martyr quick to recover, always an obstacle in his path.
“Get movin’.”
“That the best you can do?”
For his infuriating taunt, Tardif grabs him by the collar, his leash and greatest weakness, yanking the miscreant along, backing him onto the full-sized bed, laying him flat.
Damian bends to his whim easily enough, melting against the sheets, enjoying the change of flavor, the axeman climbing atop his scaffold, blocking his escape, keeping the religious zealot pinned.
Forgoing the spiked gorget, Tardif squeezes Damian's wrists, hard, bearing his whole weight down on him, a message of who's in charge.
Damian chuckles at such a futile attempt at dominance, teeth pointed and sinister.
“You know,” the priest says, “everything you do to me, you do because I let you.”
Tardif doesn't like his arrogance, grunting sorely in his face.
“That right?”
“You know it as well as I do that this would be very different if I wanted it to be.”
Damian feels the need to demonstrate, lest his partner forget, exhibiting some of that beguiling inner strength he's known for.
Another twist to upset the balance, fighting against his binds by pulling his wrists apart, using Tardifi’s own weight against him, rolling them over until the sheets writhe against the bounty hunter's backside.
That hooded miscreant stares down at his lover, a victorious, smug look upon his face that can only come from besting a man much bigger and burlier than himself.
“You see? What did I tell you?”
Always the masochist, Damian enjoys rubbing salt in the wound, a bruise left on the bounty hunter's pride.
“Lucky shot.”
The dismissive snort towards his victory doesn't change Damian’s intent, the holy man sage to the charade they put on for each other.
“You like when I top. Admit it.”
The flagellant assumes too much, gets another scoffing snort in return.
“Teh! Ye wish.”
The mercenary veers his head, seemingly disinterested in the conversation, but it’s really to conceal the honesty of his eyes.
“Lying is a sin, you know. Just look at how hard you are.”
A tattered hood dips down for emphasis, bringing attention to the bulge between his legs, a harrowing condition that had not waned since they'd started, not to mention the cum dripping out his ass.
"Yer delusional,” he insists, merely circumstantial, "Imaginin' things that ain't there.”
“Oh, am I? Then, what do you call this?”
He rocks forward, letting their hips grind, and Tardif almost forgets he's trying to hide his arousal, cutting off a moan, teeth trapped shut to keep any sounds from escaping.
"Mmm, so stubborn,” purrs the priestly paragon, repeating the action, watching the bounty hunter squirm, “I'll let the dice judge your fate."
Tardif finally looks at him, eye to eye, mockery laden behind the wings of his visor, stealing back what precedence he'd lost.
"Gunna rely on them to do all yer thinkin’?"
The flagellant says nothing to satisfy his inquiry, slipping off the brute’s leather saddle to find their small, rectangular shapes left abandoned by the door.
Now’s the perfect opportunity to jump him, turn the tide, gain the upper hand, but at most the bounty hunter sits up on elbows, a better vantage point to glimpse his partner's shapely physique, his threadbare robe spreading across the floor, bending down.
Seems Damian is just as surprised by his ornery obedience, praising him for it, ascetic feet stepping up to the bed, fulfilling his pilgrimage.
“How noble of you, accepting your punishment.”
Arm out, palm down, six-sided oracles fall from his scarred hand, landing on Tardif’s chest, tumbling off the thick sides of his waist.
Tardif looks left, then right, combining both sides, a prophetic snake eyes of, 'Your Choice.'
“Mighty convenient," the brigand huffs, shaking his head, left in the dark of what's next.
“The Light has spoken," Damian decrees, this as binding as any law.
“Sure, it has.”
Curious, how the sacred flame and Damian had such desires in common.
Pointedly, the holy man procures the dice, taking one at a time, curling them around thumb and forefinger. The same hand, still loaded, sneaks under pleated armor, traveling between the dark trenches built by muscular thighs, making the mercenary jerk, a grunt of unsuspecting surprise.
“The hell ye doin’ now?!’”
Damian meets his harsh tone of indignation with smooth, languid motion, the hard corners of something cold shoved against the roundness of his opening, hardly resistant, wet enough to take them in.
“Enacting your penance. This is but a taste.”
The second is pushed in after, flesh accepting, a bloody digit extended to it’s fullest height, securing the square block well within his walls.
“Hold these for me, won’t you?”
That damn smile, the flagellant won’t let it go, pulling out slow, then thrusting back in, circling his lover’s crease, relishing the act.
Tardif grunts, wriggling to adjust, the sensation an odd one. Aside from Damian’s cock (and other extenuating body parts), the concept of keeping toys in his ass is new, unexplored territory.
“I know just what to do with you.”
The sensual dulcet beckons the bounty hunter’s eye, making him snigger, even as Damian is buried knuckle-deep in foreplay, watching the man extract and expand under his touch.
“Oh, yeah?”
“Mmm.”
A confident hum courtesy of his holy throat, the flagellant leaving his heat, taking a taste, cleaning his finger of their slick.
“Sick bastard.”
Damian merely laughs, a morbid chuckle, lips offering a pop, licked clean.
The mattress feels lighter without him there, Tardif watching as the masochist slinks from the bed, bypassing the glory chest in favor of the commanding structure of the wardrobe.
A creak as the rustic doors open, a plethora of outfits and accessories hanging from the hooks inside. Anything from bordeaux lingerie to strappy harnesses, a paradise for those who love belts and boots and everything in between, an impressive collection that would surely rile anyone’s loins, especially a couple looking to spice up their sex life.
“Well, now I see why you chose the room.”
“Didn’t know that was there.”
A lame excuse that sounds juvenile to his own ears.
“Of course you didn't."
The light, consoling tone is unbelieving, Damian too interested in running his scared hands down such delightful prospects, lace trim amongst tannery fare, finding it hard to choose which to start with.
“How about this?”
The holy man spins to show a sheer, delicate thing, a revealing one piece that’s clearly meant for the curves of a woman.
“Maybe on ye,” Tardif snorts, raising a brow.
It would likely tear in half the moment the bounty hunter tried it on, but he wouldn’t mind seeing his sinewy bedfellow attempt it, the slim cut more akin to his size.
His chest was certainly big enough, those skimpy bra cups easily filled out, hourglass fabric bound to accentuate the arch of those sharp, tortured hips.
“True,” Damian sighs, a pity.
Hanging it back up, he searches for something his partner could wear, tossing a pair of chaps and suspenders towards him, the garments falling into the brutish man’s lap, still passively waiting in bed.
"Ye expect me to put this on?”
The idea is absolutely ludicrous, Tardif not about to play slave to anyone.
“Have you forgotten your repentance already,” asks the pale saint, a huff of airy disappointment.
“Riiiight.”
Tardif's not convinced playing dress up had anything to do with absolving his sins, but at least, the pants aren’t all that bad, crotchless though they were.
The material is a little tight, having to fight with the fabric to pull it up past his knees, a form-fitting black that wrinkles and squeaks, achieving the same results even as it stretches over wide spurs of sun-kissed brawn.
Imagine, going through all this pomp and circumstance purely for aesthetics when he could've just kept his pants off and achieved the same results.
“What do you think?”
Barely latching his suspenders into place, Tardif is so wrapped up in his own outfit that he hasn’t paid much attention to Damian, but now that he has, a gasp escapes him, eyes gibbous.
The corset hugs the bloody masochist in all the right places, raw marble bound by braided ribbon and sturdy coutil, a pair of perky nipples begging to be bit and sucked, teasing him just above a savage neckline, not to mention the arm-length gloves and thigh-high boots.
Tardif can't wait to get his hands on him, itching for a taste, seeing the appeal of elaborate costumes when it was meant for his viewing pleasure.
“Bed. Now.”
The brigand accentuates his demand with a gruff, disciplinary growl, his palm slamming down upon the mattress, making it tremble.
“Suppose that means you like it,” the flagellant chuckles, playing coy.
He struts his way around the bed, closer than before, but still outside of Tardif's reach, a swagger that tests the mercenary's patience, hips slanted and cockeyed.
“There's something still missing.”
The hopeless tease stops in front of the storage trunk, lifting the lid, rummaging through it’s contents.
“Ohh!”
Clearly he’s found something he likes, but Tardif can’t see what it is, his vision blocked, even as he shifts to catch a glimpse.
He doesn't have to wonder for long, the crack of a whip piercing the air as Damian tests out his proficiency for such tools, the roiling excitement palpable.
“I quite like this one.”
Flicking it at his side, he admires the lash, sleek, effective, painful.
“Ye would,” Tardif scoffs.
“Put these on.”
He's tossed something small and metallic, catching it within his hand, a reflex learned that he can’t switch off.
Opening his palm, the bounty hunter sees they're miniature clamps, but for what, he has his suspicions, that trunk full of devious bondage gear.
"Ain't gonna roll over," grumbles the mercenary, acting tough despite his willingness to participate.
“Oh, but you have once already,” his partner says, a nod towards their earlier coupling.
“That was then, this is now,” the brute argues, a stern defiance, "Ye want it, ye gotta earn it."
A shiver crawls up Damian's spine, loving a challenge, a chance to break him down and admit where he belongs.
"Gladly.”
Another whip crack, an undulating daze, aimed in the mercenary’s direction, woven leather coils landing on his thigh.
Tardif flinches, catching his wince just barely, seemingly impervious.
He gives Tardif no time to answer, striking the same spot, expert precision, repeated action, skin made sore and tender.
“Lettin’ ye have yer fun while it lasts.”
A professional bides his time, waiting for the perfect moment, the huntsman nothing if not precise.
“Is that why you're leaking more than I am?”
He forgot he'd swapped out his usual regalia, these fancy britches sporting a wide open cut-out, leaving his erection proudly on display, weeping pearls of slick over carved crescent shapes.
In punishment, the sting of a whip, bronze valleys bisected along the groove of his breast. His nipples are next, small, sensitive things with more nerve-endings, double the hurt.
There’s nothing to soften the blow either, his suspenders hugging, but not hiding the smell of blood, more cuts exposed as this reprehensible flogging session continues.
He’s barely uttered a sound, priding himself on remaining silent, but when the whip latches around his throat: stifled panic ensues, grabbing the cord as it constricts, assaulting his windpipe.
“There's a proper collar for you.”
Tardif has no air to retort, red-faced.
Taking advantage, Damian steps up onto the trunk, adjacent with the bed frame, using the whip as a tether, a rope to pull himself up and onto the mattress, Tardif yanked forward, forced to hold all 200 pounds of him.
The mattress isn't the most stable of furniture, a pointed heel digging into the brigand's thigh, addressing his earlier fixation, the wound no doubt blossoming into a huge bruise, a purple orchid hidden, just out of sight.
“Do as you're told,” commands the errant dominatrix, “and I'll release you.”
The bounty hunter pats the cushion under him, head still coerced, fixated upward by inanimate bands, relying on touch to find the clamps he dropped.
A task made more difficult when he can’t see or breathe, the life steadily choked out of him.
He secures his grip around one, sloppily fastening it into place, more agony to his already sore nipples.
“You look a bit faint,” the priest coos, tormenting his partner from on high, “Shall I help you with the other?”
Tardif may be feeling a bit light-headed, dizzy, losing kilos of strength as prolonged oxygen deprivation sets in, blurring his vision.
Damian shows mercy, letting the whip unwind, the bounty hunter gasping, relieved, kept from passing out.
The masochist has since climbed into his lap, attaching the other nipple clamp, a matching set now identical, complete.
Onyx-clad fingertips glide down his front, an artist appraising his newest canvas, brushstrokes of beautiful red welts, a reflection more akin to the profane testaments wrought throughout his own skin.
“There now,” the priest asks, voice soothing, “comfortable?”
Tardif merely growls, confrontational, the weakness gradually draining for him, filling his lungs with renewed strength.
It clicks, like a key unlocking, all the pieces falling into place, the moment he’d been waiting for.
“I am goin' to ruin ye.”
It’s a promise the brute revels in, eyes narrowing, a silvery gaze that holds Damain’s very life in his hands.
“Devotion has its rewards,” the priest reminds him, thumbs brushing over Tardif's stubbled cheeks, a harbinger of revelation.
Seems he's been waiting for this moment just as much as he has, stoking the flames of retribution, an enigmatic grin, always pushing for more.
With two fingers, he brute tugs fabric aside, what he can of it anyway, the clothing making the squeeze even more difficult, shoving his cock into the breach it creates, abrasive without lube.
“Hn!”
The inside of him is sweltering, tight as a vice, sensations elevated, remembering the dice, dormant, still occupying his rear, the pinch of the ensuing nipple clamps as he drives in, holding nothing back.
He'll fuck his cunt so hard he won't be able to stand for a week (or at the very least, not without a limp).
A singular thought that circles inside his head, crude motivation, giving himself permission to be as rough and unforgiving as he wants to be.
He's lost in it, scratching, biting, extracting his revenge, Damian gasping and moaning, meeting him for every thrust.
“With this confession, I unbind you from your sins.”
It has the same resonance of a church bell, but all Tardif can feel is the pleasure coursing through his veins, building higher and higher until everything goes white.
—
Sarmenti would have preferred to sleep in, the morning sun clouded by fog, chilly, but there was no better time to make alterations than during the calm, quiet hours of dawn.
Changing the headliner was always a pain, Sarmenti in the middle of repurposing the banner of his stage when he spots the stoic saunter of the bounty hunter approaching.
Whatever business he had (and the jester could take a pretty good guess), seems the axeman wanted to beat the crowd here as well.
“Hehe, another satisfied customer,” the jester calls, sing-songy, “Come to thank me, have you?”
Even if that was the case, Tardif doesn't like how happy he sounds, avoids anything that’s too encouraging.
“Here to return them.”
In his gloved hand, Tardif holds out a familiar looking purse, the dice responsible for last night’s affairs counted among its contents.
“Sorry, no refunds,” the jester says, his blithe hands like whiskers around his face, rocking atop a ladder, “Policy, you know.”
Based on that reaction, this sort of thing has happened before, especially if the trickster had his sales pitch ready.
Tardif growls, annoyed, stuffing the pouch back inside his belt holster.
“Did you think I made them just for you,” taunts the white-faced mime, “Hehe, how conceited. I make them for everyone. Myself as well.”
The jester sways atop his rickety throne, not wanting to come any closer, watching the masked man stew in his own embarrassment, fists clenched, a pummeling none too far away.
“Contrary to what you might think, my creations help lots of couples,” Sarmenti continues, congratulating himself, finding some middle ground, “But assuming you wanted to try another of my toys, perhaps, we could work out a deal.”
It’s not the compromise Tardif sought after, but it was better than walking away with nothing.
“Fine, fine. Wot do ye want in return?”
Now the lyre-piped fool stops his cavorting, arms taunt, boxing in his hips, legs crossed atop his perch, staring at the bounty hunter with sly conviction.
“I want you as the premiere act in my show.”
Tardif snorts, familiar with the high-stakes, spinning wheel trick, amused by the thought of the vexing comedian strapped to it, dishing out mortal peril at his discretion.
“As long as I am the one throwin’ the axes.”
“I was thinking more …,” Sarmenti drifts off, pretending to seek inspiration, “you as the big, ferocious lion and your flesh mortifying boyfriend as the lion tamer, but we can negotiate terms later."
He waves off any further discussion, having already decided what their roles would be, the master of ceremonies, a ringleader that carried the last laugh.
The brute is temporarily stunned, reeling at the acquisition of such privacies.
“How did ye – Nevermind, I don't want to know.”
“Oh, your lover was more than eager to fill me in on all the sordid little details,” he cackles, a blush upon his cheeks as he rakes in Tardif with new, illuminating insight, “Part of our arrangement. Clients test out my toys, in exchange for an honest review.”
A dreadful, pounding headache rages between Tardif’s eyes, a hand pressed against his helmet, but no relief comes.
“By the way,” the red devil says, the final nail in the coffin, “Premiere’s tonight. You're on at 8.”
The mercenary is too consumed, blinded by anger, steam whistling between his ears.
“I am goin’ to kill him.”
It’s muttered, faintly under his breath, and yet that nosy gossip still has the gull to hear it.
“Just make sure you do it on stage!”
The jester cheers, devolving into cackles, quite pleased with his starring attraction.
“Oh, and don’t forget this!”
The bounty hunter is tossed something, another suspicious burlap bag caught between his hands. He’s almost afraid to look inside, unable to discern such amorphous-shaped loot.
Opening it up, there appears to be more outfits inside, but what stands out the most is the dildo, painted to resemble the clown's signature red outfit, the likeness of his face chiseled into the tip, bearing an insane, mocking grin. It’s the most disturbing product he’s ever seen, a complimentary bottle of lube to accompany it, cherry-flavored, a sticker of a tongue curled around two dangling fruits.
“Heard you needed something more to your size!”
The brigand’s fingers twist, wringing the poor fabric, imagining it was a certain flagellant’s neck instead.
Sarmenti and Damian, they had to be in on this, the great tactician outwitted, never to live this down, assuming he can survive the humiliation of being on stage, made into a gross spectacle of ridicule.
Truly, a performance none would soon forget, a bloody climax, Damain's skull split right down the middle, swept under a velvet curtain (that's how he imagines it anyway), pleasure paid twofold in pain.
Cardiff based collective, Dan Marshall, Dave Intex and Dirty Dice have created the album Modula FM, which has already been given a lot of positive recognition.
They explain the album, "Modula FM - the voyage through a fusion of eclectic beats, quirky groove-based sampling, experimental synthesis, abstract memos and wonky jingles."
For only 6 pounds, there's no reason not to buy and support these talented producer's - http://modulabeats.bandcamp.com
WE'VE HAD TO TEMPORARILY MOVE OUR MSPARP "AND WELCOME TO THE JAM" ROLEPLAY TO CHARAT.
The only issue you'll find it having to retype out the quirk, there is no automatic quirk through here, but basically it's almost exactly the same. These are the colour codes:
Calliope: #929292
Caliborn: #323232
Doc Scratch: #ffffff
John #0715cd
Rose: #b536da
Dave: #e00707
Jade: #4ac925
Jane: #00d5f2
Roxy: #f141ef
Dirk: #42a400
Jake: #1f9400
Aradia: #a10000
Sollux: a1a100
Karkat: #626262
Nepeta: #416600
Kanaya: #008141
Terezi: #008282
Vriska: #005682
Equius: #000056
Gamzee: #2b0057
Eridan: #6a006a
Feferi: #7703c
Obligatory Black Text: #000000
Now the rest of the characters should translate out from the codes given, however if you would like to be Kankri, his code is #ff0000
So, now that all the formalities are out of the way, let’s get on to what will actually be going on in this chat, shall we?
We dominantly play two games in here, Dirty Dice and Spin the bottle, usually played simultaneously in a simpler manner than one might imagine. I will explain that shortly, but before I get too far ahead of myself and forget like the worthless loser I am, here are the rules for both games.
Dirty Dice
The game is simple. A play rolls two dice, outcomes decided via this really cool thing called a randomizer, and has to do an action on a certain part of another player’s body (said victim also decided via randomizer, ain’t it neat? :D). The actions can get pretty rediculous, so if either party would not like to complete the roll, they can choose to remove an article of clothing (things like shoes and socks, anything in a pair really, are counted as one article) as part of the strip penalty. It’s easy once you get the hang of it, I can’t imagine anyone having too much trouble understanding the game. :)
This is played fairly simply as well. Essentially a player will spin the bottle (outcome via that sexy little randomizer we rely on so dearly) and go into the closet chat (link in the chat sidebar) with the other person for twenty minutes. To pass the time, the peeps on the outside play Dirty Dice and talk and stuff. It’s a good time, really! :) So stop by and see what we all have to offer, I love all of you and stuff.
- originally written up by Davemod (thank you baby <3 )
- Reposting by Melody
Hey, all! If you want to roleplay a canon Homestuck character or an OC, come on down and play some games with us! We usually play dirty dice and spin the bottle, but occasionally we'll play other games such as truth or dare and never have I ever. Anyway, come play with us!
Giving this another go since I think I'll be on for a while.
DIRTY DICE: Please keep it moderately in character. Doubles are welcome as long as they distinguish themselves somehow. AUs welcome, but only of canon characters. ADULT RPERS ONLY! I could care less how old the character is {As long as it isn't unreasonable} But please, if you want to do any smutty roleplaying, you have to be at least 18.
The idea of the game is, essentially, I'll have two randomizing lists open; one for the character, and one for the action that must be performed. Someone will 'roll dice' and 'spin a bottle' and I'll tell them who it landed on and what they need to do to them.
