#bitey li'l rat || headcanon | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

accusedofsin · 2 years

Note

What is the weirdest thing you have ever found on a person while robbing them?

The highwayman leaned on his arm and hummed, looking through the tangled mess of his memories. Robbery stories were endless - funny, sad, mundane, horrific... much like his life, the ex-brigand supposed.

"Oh, there was a lot o' stupid shite we found on folks, n' I mean a lot."

He snickered.

"Like, once we found a portrait o' a bint on a bloke who was traveling with a stunning young lass. So 'tis moron admits tis his wife, and the lass suddenly realizes she's a side fling, n' she gets really angry, n' scratches his face off n' surrenders all hidden strongboxes in the coach if we let her go n' punt the cretin. Which we do, obviously," Dismas clicked his tongue, remembering the woman. What a woman that one was! Definitely worth the infidelity. "Feisty one, that was. Raven hair, fiery eyes. Smokin'. Heh."

The rogue had to take more gulps and pause for a bit to make his throat stop spasming. Ugh, damned nick to the throat...

"Lots o' other dumb things, too. But there was this, ha, pious monk, ha, 'tis one's m'personal favorite, see."

One more swing.

"So we drag him off the mule, n' he bleats how we shouldn't, 'cause he's a man o' the Holy Light n' all that shite. Stops no one, obviously. So we see through his things, n' there are oils n' ointments n' all that stuff n' in a separate satchel along with a few things. First were the beads in a separate cloth. Like a rosary, but a single string, n' beads are carved oddly, n' go from a small one, less than a pea, n' to a one that's bigger than a chestnut. n' this git looks me dead in the eye n' swears 'tis a rosary from the far east n' that t'is holy n' we shouldn't take it. n' then there's another cloth with this carved wooden pear, with same odd shapes on its surface, n' he tells t'is a holy symbol. n' lastly we find polished scepter, this royal shaft, n' he starts bleatin' bout that bein' holy too."

The rogue snickered again and shook his head. After another booze-filled pause to keep his throat working, Dismas continued:

"So I laughed in his fat face, cause I ain't a dimwit n' know what I see, n' snatched those n' oils away while others were wondering," his grin became sly. "Polished sandalwood those were, by the way. Not a cheap toy. Washed them thorough n' kept for m'self."

A sigh.

"Shame lost 'em on the road 'ere, definitely helped me with, ha, worshipin' the light properly!"

#while booze is on its way || asks #locked quirk: nymphomaniac || lemon #bitey li'l rat || headcanon

4 notes · View notes

accusedofsin · 2 years

Note

The expedition went well so far. Their little group decided to take a little break anyway, just to be prepared for what was about to come eventually.

The Vestal had decided to keep wake over them while they rested. Reynauld had decided to risk a few minutes of shuteye while testing next to Dismas. Of course, being used to march all day and saviour the few moments of sleep he could get he was quickly in the land of dreams.

It didn't take long until he turned over and warped an arm around his highwayman companion, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. And for Reynauld it was, because he was a serial cuddler. No one was save when sleeping next to him

@bulwark-of-hope

[for @bulwark-of-hope - are you in for the ride?]

Dismas, who tried his best to get a desperate snooze in a fucking hellhole that crawled with whatever cox-combed horrors some sick fuck decided was a good idea to make real, was immediately startled awake when he felt the touch, yet habitually only tensed his muscles and sharpened his senses, keeping his face relaxed and eyes shut.

In the not-so-distant past, pretending to be dead or at least unconscious saved his hide at least a couple of times, and he wasn't breaking the habit now either.

But the touch remained gentle, albeit firm, and he was pressed into something hard, and there was the sound of soft, even breathing over him.

Was... was that Reynauld?

One quick sniff and the dizzying smell of that odd stinky thing, frankincense, mixed with the armor polish and that even odder, sharp taint that the rogue came to associate with holy water proved his guess to be the correct one. Right. So he needn't get the dirk out and strike. Good. Good-good-good. Great even.

Now, why would the bloody oaf hug him, Dismas tried to figure out, mind sluggish from the disturbed snooze? People didn't hug others in their sleep! The world wasn't that degree of insanity! If anything, going by the cursed estate, not yet.

The most obvious solution for huddling would be warmth. Woodland critters did that. Hell, woodland brigands did that, during the worst months of the winter.

But the campfire was over there. And the knight got way-too-many-fucking-layers-of-protective-bullshit under that fancy surcoat for the highwayman's scrawny body to be of any hope to warm all that heap properly. So that didn't ring true to the rogue's ears.

What could be other solutions to the puzzle?

Maybe he tried to warm him up, a part of the ex-brigand's mind suggested awkwardly. Dismas did shudder and bundle up in the hellish corridors more than he even usually did. Yet, again, the campfire was over there, and the metal of the crusader's armor wasn't particularly warm, either. Maybe the holy prick thought that it was the thought that counts? He was odd, after all. Might've believed in that nonsense as well.

Still... unplausible.

So maybe... Reynauld simply wanted to hug him?

But they weren't alone, and from what the rogue managed to gather, the knight was jittery about his standing with the church. He didn't strike Dismas as someone who was into public sex - in front of another believer, no less. Dismas wouldn't mind a threesome, could be a lot of fun to get those holier-than-thou preachers to enjoy the carnal side of life once in a while, but... that didn't sound true, either.

So what remained...?

Dismas didn't have enough time to finish that thought, because he was casually manhandled even closer into the knight's side and... oh. Oh, indeed. That stirred his tired, sleepy mind. Definitely gave his loins quite the stir as well. If the crusader could move him like that being asleep, well, that could open up some very, very interesting possibilities...

The highwayman gulped at the sheer carnal excitement the idea brought him. That was definitely a better thing to think about that the horrors around. The armor was in the way, sure, but he was a crafty man, and even though evil tongues called him a dimwit, he had a nice imagination. Occasionally, at least. A lot of experience on how to remain quiet in the most... compromising... circumstances, too.

So he stirred and snuggled closer, doing his best to play it off as sleeping, leaning into the armored body that lured him closer still, fiding his face into the knight's broad chest. Like a moth to the light, ha! Reynauld may have pretended to be an armored beetle, but there were enough soft spots for a keen eye. The inside of the arm, for example. Just a tad of twisting and a bit of tugging, and the highwayman could press his shoulder into that, overcoat pulled off on one side in a seemingly troubled sleep, leaving only a threadbare brown shirt. Dismas always slept quietly and very, very still, like a rabbit caught under a bush during the hunt, but he could always pin his subtle stirring onto nightmares--

Oh.

All other thoughts fell out of his head.

Oh, the man was hot. In all senses, the glorious bastard. Even through the gambeson, the highwayman could feel the heat that promised to scorch him in the best of ways. He was constantly so cold ever since the prison. So, so unbelievably cold.

But here he felt warm and steady, and safe. Protected, even.

The smell of frankincense made Dismas even dizzier than before, breathing deeper, labored. He wouldn't last like that. Couldn't, simply. It was too much, too overwhelming. There wasn't enough time to take care of himself during the expedition, and the horrors were useful for once, dampening the urge, but now that he got the sliver of respite, the highwayman wanted it, needed it, needed the crusader--

Discreetly snaking a hand in the tight space between them, the rogue palmed himself and let out a quiet, sated sigh. Just a few strokes. He was already so wound up, his ears were ringing from the rushing of blood. He could imagine more to it than there was, after all. He was used to that.

But then a thought kicked Dismas right into the crotch: was... was he overstepping...?

The knight offered him his odd, thrilling care. He saw him as an equal, the madman. And maybe Dismas was ballsy, but he wasn't ungrateful. Genuine help was a rarity for the likes of him, after all. And he could be a god-tier conman, but there was a line, even to his need-fogged brain, between jerking himself off to the imagined Reynauld to whom he could do whatever the damn well he pleased - and jerking himself off while snuggled into a sleepy and thus unknowing embrace of the real man.

But...

The rogue closed his eyes, feeling the uncompromising tug at his core.

...he knew he wouldn't stop. He couldn't. Ever since that string in him snapped, he never could. Even if he knew he should've.

So Dismas shut his eyes, in the futile attempt to be shamed, all while suffocating in the incense and the closeness of the man he wanted for a while, and for the first time in a long, long time the rush of enclosing completion wasn't welcomed with anticipating thrill but with a sigh of tired relief.

Finally, finally, he was done, and spent, and simply tired, and could relax his taut muscles. He had long trained his body into complete, soundless stillness by countless semi-public stress reliefs. And if the highwayman had any luck left, one more stain on him wouldn't be noticed by others, even if the stain was in a peculiar spot. He was rather roughed up by the expedition, after all.

But the embrace was warm, and Reynauld's breathing remained sound and even, and the Vestal wasn't screaming bloody murder at his degeneracy, and thus, Dismas allowed himself to hope that it would be simply yet another one of the treasure cove of his dirty, sticky little secrets.

He let out a soundless tired chuckle, getting another lungful of the odd holy incense smell. Off-putting at first, now it felt... nicer. Cozy, even. Familiar.

Warm.

Welp, Dismas thought detachedly, going to churches - if he was ever forced to, by some ungodly miracle - threatened to become one heap of an embarrassment that he would be hard-pressed to explain if anyone ever noticed his reaction to the bloody smell that he started to associate with the crusader more and more with each passing day.

#while booze is on its way || asks #locked quirk: nymphomaniac || lemon #bitey li'l rat || headcanon #wow this one took a while #hope you enjoyed the ride

3 notes · View notes

accusedofsin · 2 years

Text

Pride month rolls in, so why not talk about muses sexuality a bit? :}

also can be used as a tiny memo for the mun...

Dismas: Demisexual nymphomaniac - which is an oxymoron on its own, almost. He can have sex with any gender, and he has to have it to remain sane and functional, however, that would be treated much like taking medicine - necessity and indifference to the partner in question, and the focus would be on sex. It doesn’t mean he wouldn’t try to sate them both, but he wouldn’t bother to remember his partner for example. However, he wants sex only with those he has an emotional connection with, and to him, there’s a huge difference between “want” and “need”. Vers and usually a sub, but can be coaxed into being a dom with the right partner.

Sarmenti: gay through and through, sometimes feigns to be bicurious if only for others to shut up and stop breathing down his neck for his “deviant tastes”. Only dom and mostly top, but if he really likes his partner (or if his whim commands him to), he can play the role of a power bottom once in a blue moon. Diva in bed just as much as he is on stage, he wouldn’t mind stopping and getting out literally mid-thrust if he feels like he’s undervalued, but to his credit, he puts just as much effort and work into his performance in sex as he does into his music. Yes, he wouldn’t mind a standing ovation after sex too. No, I’m not exaggerating.

#bitey li'l rat || headcanon #sinner's ditty || all muses #the walls between realities is thin here || ooc #playing as a demisexual nymphomaniac would never stop being funny to me

2 notes · View notes

accusedofsin · 2 years

Text

One day, Hildegard will return to her room to find that someone not only had been there, but also left a bottle of whiskey, a Man slayer’s ring, and a bundle of torches on an easy to notice spot.

Nothing will be taken, and nothing will be touched or turned, or moved. No one has obviously seen anyone going anywhere near, and there will be no traces.

But Reynauld may be wondering what made Dismas be lost in his head on one particular day.

#bitey li'l rat || headcanon #muttered into neckerchief || musings

2 notes · View notes

accusedofsin · 2 years

Note

how did Dismas deal with his ah, affliction, when in jail? Not much privacy there.

mun here :} thanks for such an ask!

get ready for a lot of ramblings

short answer: the prison was hellish in this regard as well, and at first was one continuous test of Dismas' ability to hide and constant paranoia about being seen as sexual prey, while later on, he was physically unable to get into a rut and it saved him a lot of trouble at expense of his both physical and mental health

long answer: here is where my understanding of the prison where Dismas was held differs heavily from what RH shows us and why Buffmas, fanservice-friendly as he is, gets only a tired groan out of me: if Dismas was starved enough to eat raw, uncooked rats while they were probably alive, there is no way in hell he'd have such a muscle mass and definition of his muscles. but that's a rant for another day, however, it is partially relevant.

i have to put one very important note forward: based on a weird mishmash of cartoony imagery, narration, anachronisms in DD in general, and stylistic choices, it's very hard to understand what was the idea behind this particular "prison", or even how long Dismas could've been there. so I'll be blunt and admit that I draw my Dismas' experience from forced labor camps and that he had been locked up for a very long time, hence he was fucked up royally by the end of the experience

on top of other issues that he had there in general - including but not limited to severe malnutrition, dehydration, physical exhaustion, and constant cold that led to inflammation that fucked up a lot of his bodily functions - the imprisonment, in general, was a long, grueling, excruciating endurance test to his ability to get off as silently and discreetly as was humanly possible because otherwise, he would've become the sexual prey of other inmates. this was his main test of being motionless, silent, and subtle as he got off, and why now he can get off while being in the fully-manned tavern or during camps in the cursed estate, with surrounding people being none the wiser to what he just did, unless they're close enough to actually feel his subtle movements/the slight hitch of his breathing.

basically, being in prison was brigand 2.0: electric boogaloo for him but cranked up to eleven: he had to keep himself functional, protect his food and himself, and seem bigger and scarier than he actually was, all while hiding his condition to the best of his ability all while being locked up in a tight space with other people with no ability to get away into the woods if he needed to. being completely unhinged and obtaining a reputation of a "crazy rat" somewhat helped, too - Dismas consciously and hastily built a reputation of a total creep and a bloodthirsty thug, hoping that it would keep at least some other prisoners off of his neck. sometimes, being repulsive and doing some crazy shit like staring others down while jerking off helped too - no one could predict what exactly was "wrong with the guy" and what he'd do next. he was seen as "loose in the head", unsavory, and simply disgusting; and while it was degrading, to play into such a role, Dismas would rather be loathed than fucked by all other prisoners

in a somewhat twisted blessing in disguise, his horrific conditions helped him, since his body, twisted as it was towards sex, was physically unable to put him into a rut, especially later on during his imprisonment. Dismas was basically too traumatized and too starved to get an erection and mere motions of jerking off were more than enough to get his condition under control without the climax itself - getting the habit and tricking his brain into thinking that he was sated was more important than sex or masturbation (or lack of it, in this case), simply because he could trick his brain into thinking he was sexually satisfied, while his body was physically unable to ejaculate anyway

things got somewhat better and somewhat worse when he was put into solitary. on one hand, he had all the privacy he could need. on the other hand, it was solitary, where he was locked in for months on end after working hours. and while it relieved his paranoia a bit and helped him somewhat with the "tricking himself into believing he got off and everything was fine", it added a whole plethora of other issues

frankly, once Dismas was out of prison and he felt his first rut, he was happy to feel it, for once - because it meant he was clawing into being marginally *better* than he was in that hellhole, and his body was out of "pure survival mode" if it could switch sexual function back on. the key word here is "marginally" since living in the slums as a fugitive and eating raw rats and maggots is in no way healthy - but it's healthier than being constantly afraid of becoming the prison slut, not having even rats to eat, having no access to any water whatsoever, and being constantly worked to the bone

#while booze is on its way || asks #the walls between realities is thin here || ooc #locked quirk: nymphomaniac || lemon #bitey li'l rat || headcanon

2 notes · View notes