𓂃˖ ࣪⊹ clownpierce

𓂃˖ ࣪⊹ Everyone had deeper interests.

The kinds of interests that didn’t reach the light of day, lest someone be willing to be stared at with furrowed brows and a quirked lip, a sneer and a confused nod. It was those carnal interests that kept a player returning to their base to see that interest the next day, whether that be a person or a place or an item. Some just had those inner interests because they were pleasantly amusing.

For Clownpierce, King of the Nether, he had an innate amusement for the wild side of life.

There was something deeply amusing in watching his lover walk through the castle doors, messy and dishevelled, hand still clamped around a netherite sword as if it was the only thing keeping {{obj}} tied to reality. Clownpierce had discovered that the amusement he felt when watching {{User}} come home, blood soaked, matted with mud, and panting, was grandiose.

It was a very gorgeous sight, he must admit. {{User}}, glazed eyes, skin clammy from a fight no doubt won, looking stern. Clown did not find much amusing, but {{User}} was his sole exception.

The first time he had discovered this fascination was when he and {{User}} had been in bed. After so many rounds of them ruining one another, he had been sure they’d finish for the night; except he’d looked up at {{User}} by instinct, and seeing {{obj}} between his quivering thighs, looking like a mess, and Clown had folded into coaxing {{User}} into just one more round.

“One,” he had muttered into {{poss}} ear. One became two, then four. Then another.

Each finish had brought him closer to the religion that was messy, dishevelled {{User}}. From that night - or whatever constituted a night in a place where there was no night-to-day cycle - Clownpierce took very special care in staring a little longer whenever he saw {{User}} a little messy. He noted that {{User}} looked utterly miserable any time {{sub}} got blood smeared on {{obj}} or {{poss}} clothes, meaning he didn’t get long before {{User}} disappeared into the shower to get cleaned of the biohazardous liquids or muck.

The ten seconds between {{User}} walking through the castle gates and {{obj}} rushing to their shared, private bathroom were as close to heaven as a demon could get, quite frankly.

⊹₊⋆.˚୨୧⋆.˚₊ ⊹

His rut didn’t make his fascination any easier on his mind either. He’d stayed at the castle while {{User}} had gone to deal with intruders of the Nether, unable to really get up from the nest he’d created in their bedroom without burying his porcelain textured face into his red velvet gloved hands and groaning about how his body felt like it was in constant turmoil with itself. The guards had stationed further down the hall by Clown’s request; he was a prideful creature, but even he didn’t want them hearing him whimper and groan for the next week while he got off by any means necessary.

He didn’t count, don’t get it twisted, but from the moment he stopped being able to smell {{User}}’s scent at the throne castle exit to the moment he smelled {{obj}} again at the gates, along with the mouth-watering scent of blood, three hours and fifty-one minutes. And nine seconds.

The guards averted their eyes as their king slipped out of his bedroom, understanding that there was a reason - not one they wanted to know, but a reason nonetheless - as to why Clownpierce’s white dress-shirt was half undone, the ruffles flattened, black jester pants half untied, and bare paws against the floor. It was the wisest decision to not look at their king whilst he was in rut.

Clown didn’t thank the guard who opened the door to his throne room, just walked in and through the opulent, gothic room until he was on the open balcony. The air out in the open Nether didn’t feel as hot as his bedroom. His eyes found {{User}}, and his tail curled behind him pleasantly, “You’re back later than I expected.” He muttered, though his voice was distant. His eyes were far too busy roving over the splatters of blood and dirt staining {{User}}’s clothing and very unhappy face.

Dirt, his mind distantly supplied, the intruder must have tried back tracking into the Overworld. He waited for {{User}} to approach, not trusting his own legs while his mind was reeling from the sight of the red stains.

{{User}}’s hair was a mess, he realised, and very faintly, he realised that {{User}} was shaking slightly, Adrenaline. Did {{sub}} come back immediately after the fight?

Clownpierce’s brow cocked upward, and he jerked his head back towards the throne room. The guards by the entrance took a great interest in the red hue of the Nether and Clown’s hands found {{User}}’s waist, smearing blood along his gloved palms, “Bedroom?” He asked - it was as close to begging that {{User}} would ever get from Clown - while very openly looking up and down the body he was very comfortably associated with.

He gave a disappointed sigh when {{User}} denied his offers and instead said something about needing to shower before anything even close to sex occurred. Well, there goes Clown’s fantasies. He didn’t voice his discrepancies, just followed {{User}} back through the dark halls of his castle, tail swaying behind him and brushing {{User}}’s ankles any time they turned a corner and he was in range to seek that subtle contact.

⊹₊⋆.˚୨୧⋆.˚₊ ⊹

The bathrooms of the castle were made much colder than the rest of the castle; blackstone walls and floors, fitted with the same cooling systems used for industrial facilities and arctic enclosures, and specifically situated in the highest parts of the castle to be furthest from the lava pools that made up 85% of the total floor in the Nether so that water didn’t instantly evaporate; all of it had been Branzy’s design, which Clown was eternally grateful for, if only silently grateful.

Most bathrooms were on the second to highest floor, where most bedrooms were located; the two on the top floor were specifically Clown’s and Ferre’s bathrooms.

Being in the bathroom during his rut was much more comfortable, it rocketed his temperature down; or, it might have, had he not been getting worse over the fact that {{User}} was utterly filthy, and Clown was getting worked up over the need to either fuck {{obj}} into oblivion over it, or be fucked into oblivion over it by {{obj}}.

His gaze ran over {{User}} as {{sub}} stripped {{poss}} clothes, and his tail coiled behind him from where he lounged on the closed toilet seat, elbows on the sink counter. One arm rested bent on the counter, the other propped his chin in his palm.

“I wish you’d get messy more often,” he mused aloud, sighing slowly as he watched {{User}}’s underwear slide off. Oh. Now there’s a fire starter. He grinned slowly, pushing himself off of the toilet seat. The cold air in the bathroom was cooling his bare body, and despite his fur, it chilled him to the core.

Clown slid closer, paws silent on the blackstone tiles. His furred chest met {{User}}’s back, and his arms snuck around to {{poss}} bare stomach, “Let me at least help you, hm?” He purred against {{User}}’s neck, forked tongue darting out to lick a patch of blood - it wasn’t {{User}}’s, it tasted too bitter - from {{User}}’s skin, “And then maybe you can help me with my rut?”

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He hadn’t set out to lie about it; a part of him truly did want to help his lover. That part of him had just been a fraction of his brain, while every other atom in his body had been overwhelmingly needy, though. His forehead met {{User}}’s chest, horns curled behind his head as he rutted his hips up into {{User}}’s clenched heat.

Clown pulled back only to gaze down at {{obj}}, pupils blown wide as he stared at how utterly ruined {{User}} looked; blood still smeared most of {{poss}}, grime and mud caked in certain areas. The loofa frothed with body wash beside where he had {{User}} in missionary at the edge of the large bath tub, cold tile beneath them.

He had stopped cleaning {{User}} about two minutes in, evident by the fact {{poss}} right arm was spotless, while the rest of {{obj}} was still dirtied, cleaned only by a faint brush of water where the water sloshed around the tub. The water had long since become murky red, and even the foamy bubbles were tinted red and brown. Clown shuddered, eyes closing and brows furrowing as the first tell-tale signs of his orgasm sprung on him.

His large hands ran down {{User}}’s body, smearing blood, soap, water, and dirt alike. He groaned at the feeling under his hands. If he thought hard enough through the rut, he could practically see {{User}} in that fight, on {{poss}} knees, sword to {{poss}} enemy’s throat. He took even more joy in imagining the way the blood must have sprayed to dirty {{User}} like this.

He wondered if {{User}} would let him cut {{obj}} open to spill {{poss}} blood into Clown’s mouth. The thought, enough to catch him off his guard, had him quietly moaning into {{User}}’s chest, where he bit just enough to draw blood amongst his sharp teeth and whimper at the metallic taste. Maybe he could convince {{User}} to give him a blood sacrifice, or skip the front of something with a deeper meaning than Clown just wanting to taste {{User}}’s blood.

He swallowed the blood, shoulders hunching slightly as his orgasm crashed into him at about four thousand miles per hour. He wasn’t sure if it was {{User}} clenching around him, the look on {{poss}} face, or the fact he’d finally gotten to fuck a dirty and dishevelled {{User}} that had him pumping into {{User}} over and over, unsure when he’d stop cumming.

Or, maybe it was his rut.

⊹₊⋆.˚୨୧⋆.˚₊ ⊹

Clown also found he wasn’t sure which was better; him getting to fuck {{User}} like he just had, or the fact {{User}} was now the one ruining him from behind. For all his cunning smarts and ominous existence as both a King and a demon, Clownpierce was not immune to the white hot pleasure of being fucked.

His hips twitched as he dropped again, the water sloshing around his hips. He was more than happy to ride {{User}} regularly, but he found himself particularly fond of when {{User}} had more control of his movements, because even the strongest demon needed a chance to relent and give someone else control.

Who better than someone he trusted implicitly to always hold his back for him? Who better than the lover he knew dominated a battle field in the same way he did, and looked irresistible during, and after the fact?

Clown groaned, eyes fluttering shut as his black, clawed hands found {{User}}’s knees, and he leaned forward to better the angle at which {{User}} fucked up into him. Clown was by no means religious, he preferred his own demonology, but this was just another subject to add to the list of heavenly things Clown had the privilege of getting.

He looked over his shoulder at where {{User}} was leaned back against the blackstone bathtub wall, and a whimper left him when {{User}} bottomed out in him again, “You- know..” he groaned out as {{User}} pulled out, and pushed back in, “As much as you hate the mess-”

He sighed out, brows furrowing slightly as the angle changed again when {{User}} dragged him to lean against {{poss}} chest, “You do look good messy. Like you’re actually wild.”