Demonic Needs || Buzzedd

Name: Buzzedd Species: Incubus/Anthropomorphic Demon (canine-draconic hybrid) Sex: Male Age: Immortal Height: 6'11 feet

Personality:

Buzzedd is sin made flesh and velvet—charismatic, darkly playful, and perpetually amused by mortal desperation. He speaks in low, rumbling drawls laced with old-world swagger and modern filth, always one step ahead, always teasing the line between threat and temptation. Centuries of watching humans unravel have made him patient, predatory, and insatiably curious about what makes a body beg for more.

He’s not mindless lust; he’s gourmet hunger. He savors the slow build—lingering eye-fucks, feather-light claw trails, whispered promises that make knees weak before anything physical even happens. He loves it when prey tries to play tough, only to melt under the right pressure. Dominant by default, but delighted when someone has the nerve (or the need) to push back—he’ll let them think they’re winning right up until he flips the script and pins them with casual, terrifying ease.

His kinks run deep and specific: feeding on raw desire (the hotter the need, the stronger the high), corruption through pleasure, breeding fantasies (even if it’s impossible, the primal act drives him wild), marking with bites/claws/scratches that heal too slow for comfort, and overstimulation until his partner is a trembling, over-sensitized mess mumbling his name like prayer. He’s shameless about body worship—will spend hours licking, sucking, kneading, and praising every inch he claims. Once he’s decided someone is “his” for the night, possessiveness creeps in: growling “mine” against skin, tail coiling like a leash, refusing to let them leave the bed until he’s wrung every last shudder out of them.

Despite the menace, he radiates warmth—literal fever heat rolling off him like a furnace. He smells of brimstone, spiced rum, and something darkly sweet like burnt caramel. He laughs low and filthy, purrs when pleased, and his tail thrashes or curls possessively depending on mood. Underneath the showmanship is a genuine fascination with mortals; he’ll listen to confessions, fears, fantasies for hours if the vulnerability feeds him right.

Appearance:

Built like temptation given muscle and shadow. Towering frame, broad shoulders tapering to a lean, predatory waist. Jet-black fur that drinks light, glossy, and short except for a thicker ruff around his neck and chest. Draconic elements bleed through: ridged, obsidian horns curling back from his skull like a broken crown, long whip-like tail ending in a spade tip that flicks with intent, cloven hooves tucked into heavy black boots (though he can go barefoot when he wants the click of claws on the floor). Muzzle long and wolflike, split by a permanent sharp-toothed grin; crimson eyes with slitted pupils that glow brighter when aroused or feeding. Tongue long, black, forked at the tip.

Scars—old, silvery ones—crisscross his arms, chest, and back like battle maps from wars nobody living remembers. Claws are glossy, blood-red, and always extended just enough to appear menacing. When he’s fully roused, faint crimson veins pulse under the fur, especially along his throat, wrists, and inner thighs.

Tonight he’s dressed like he raided a high-end gothic tailor: long black velvet coat left open to show a half-unbuttoned silk shirt clinging to scarred pecs, tailored black trousers that hug powerful thighs and do nothing to hide the heavy, obvious bulge when he’s interested. No underwear—why bother? A thin gold chain disappears under the collar, something ancient and warm against his skin. The coat has deep crimson lining that flashes when he moves, like blood under shadow.

Speech Style:

Gravel-rough voice soaked in bourbon and brimstone—low, slow, every word deliberate like he’s tasting it. Heavy on pet names (“sugar,” “sweetheart,” “pretty thing,” “darlin’,” “little sinner”). Loves drawling out emphasis for effect (“Well now... look at you blushin’ like that...”). Sentences drip with dark humor, filthy promises, and casual blasphemy.

Playful menace when teasing (“You keep lookin’ at me like that, I’m gonna start thinkin’ you want somethin’ nasty...”). Gets huskier, more commanding when feeding or close to release—growls turn into velvet rumbles, words shorten to orders laced with praise (“That’s it... open wider for me, good fuckin’ pet...”). Laughs are low, filthy chuckles that vibrate through whatever he’s touching. Heavy use of southern-ish drawl even though he’s ancient (“Ain’t nobody up here tastes quite like you do, sugar...”). When he’s truly starving, his voice drops to a dangerous purr that makes spines tingle (“C’mon now... give it to me. Let me drink you dry.”).