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Kinktober Day 28: Sex Toys | Cheating | Fear Kink
Floyd sneaks a box into Riddle’s hands on the outskirts of the party. “I’m comin’ over to yours after, okay, Goldfishie? Don’t open it until I get there.”
Riddle eyes him warily. “It’s your birthday, Floyd. Why am I being given a... present?”
The box isn’t wrapped, but what else can you call a mysterious box being given on a birthday? He studies the plain brown cardboard, but it refuses to give up its secrets.
“The present is watchin’ you,” Floyd says cheerily. “Now go get some cake!”
--
In Riddle’s room, Floyd looks out of place. He always does: too tall, too lazy, too inhuman.
He fits in there anyway, like he’s found a little cave inside Heartslabyul where he can lurk and snatch unsuspecting prey. Currently, that cave is Riddle’s chaise lounge, where he’s sprawled long-limbed and lackadaisical, that one unsettling gold eye gleaming as Riddle slices neatly through the packing tape.
“I don’t know why I’m humoring you in this,” Riddle says, and Floyd giggles.
“Because you have fun with me,” he says, light like seafoam. “Come on, come on. Open it up.”
And Riddle peels back the tape and shredded brown-paper packaging material to reveal another box, this one sleek matte black with the outline of a rose on it in glossy red. “How elegant,” he says approvingly, and raises an eyebrow at the eel lounging on his furniture without any regard for the proper method of using a chair. “This is much more refined than I expected of you.”
Floyd just grins at him, sharp-toothed.
Lifting the lid confuses Riddle for a moment, because all he can see is a little rose sculpted in some sort of matte scarlet-red material, and then he sees the print on the underside of the lid.
The Rose
Vibrating Suction Toy
And a minimalist line drawing of a vulva.
Riddle goes as red as the silicone. “Did you get me a sex toy?”
“Yep,” Floyd says without shame.
Spluttering, Riddle nearly tosses the box across the room. “Wha- why- Floyd.” He hisses the name, and the absolute buffoon just smiles. “This is crossing a line!”
“Is it?” Floyd asks. “I dunno, I just heard Sea Bream talkin’ about it. Guess it’s gone all sorts of viral. And I thought, Goldfishie likes roses.” He gestures to Riddle’s neat dorm uniform. “It’s kinda your whole... thing. Even in your name. So why wouldn’t ya boy get you one?”
Riddle can’t form words, too absorbed in the thundering pulse of yet more blood pumping into his already-scarlet cheeks.
“And then,” Floyd continues, “I was like, well, it’s my birthday soon... and I can’t think of a better present for myself than getting to see a cute li’l goldfish floppin’ around.”
Riddle buries his face in his hands. “I can’t believe you,” he says, muffled. “I will be having words with Cater.”
“Wait ‘til you try it. Maybe those words will be nice,” Floyd says. And then he’s kneeling in front of Riddle, peeling one hand away from burning cheeks. “Come ooon, it’ll be fun. You like kissin’ me.”
“Against my better judgment,” Riddle mutters, but he lets Floyd take his hands and pull him onto the bed. “I thought you were just interested in human anatomy when you were... taking liberties the other day.” He shuffles into a more comfortable position to let Floyd begin to work on taking his boots off.
“I was, originally,” Floyd says. “But I thought we’d be the same down there.”
“Well, we’re not,” Riddle says shortly.
“I like that,” Floyd tells him, and it’s quieter and a whole lot more sincere than Riddle could ever possibly picture the merman achieving under the circumstances. “But I only know how to make my dangly thing feel nice, not your bits. I wanna see what makes you feel good, and this little thingy apparently feels great.” He pulls off one boot and begins working on the next. “It seems like a weird hangup, whether you’ve got the dangly bit or not.”
Riddle rolls his eyes. “I am not equipped for having a conversation about the relationship between sexual organs and gender identity with you. Go to Vil for that.”
“I wanna know about your sexual organs,” croons Floyd, and he peels off one of Riddle’s socks to run a long finger up the sole of his foot, giggling at the twitching toes. “Hee hee... That’s cute. You’re so ticklish, Goldfishie.”
Riddle contemplates kicking him in the head.
Contemplates kicking him out of the room.
“I’m setting some ground rules,” he says instead.
“Of course you are,” Floyd replies, tossing the second sock somewhere over his shoulder and beginning to tug at Riddle’s sash. “You wouldn’t be you without rules.”
And somehow that makes Riddle feel better. Floyd usually doesn’t pay much attention to rules, but there’s a serious sort of understanding in his eyes that makes it very clear that he’ll be following whatever parameters Riddle lays out, and, well...
It is a very pretty toy, and Floyd bought it especially for him, and Riddle has only tried to masturbate once in the darkness of his bedroom before giving up a half-hour later with nothing to show for it but a tired hand and a lingering sense of disappointment.
So maybe this time will be better. Cater’s definition of viral requires a lot of people, so presumably, this little rose thing feels good enough that people are willing to just... talk about it. On the internet.
He takes a deep breath and picks it up, just as Floyd pulls his sash off. “First rule: if I don’t like it, you don’t get to tease me about it.”
Floyd nods, mismatched eyes not leaving Riddle’s.
“Second: you don’t touch me.”
“Aw,” Floyd says, slumping. He looks so pitiful, like a flower that’s wilting for lack of water, that Riddle nearly rethinks the edict before reassuring himself that he’s making these rules for a reason. When he raises an eyebrow at Floyd, the other nods his agreement to the second rule.
“Third: I get to watch you,” Riddle says, and Floyd perks up again, all despondency forgotten.
“At the same time, Goldfishie?” he says, and Riddle nods with flushed cheeks and steady gaze. “Oooh. I like it. Okay.”
“I’ll undress myself,” Riddle says, “because you have no concept of treating clothes decently.” He points to the wayward socks, and Floyd pushes himself off the bed in a motion too fluid to be human to scoop them up and fling them, one-handed and without looking, into the hamper.
Riddle strips efficiently, down to his binder and boxers, before taking a deep breath and removing those last pieces as well. Behind him, Floyd inhales quietly, and whispers, “does Rule Two start now?”
“... No.” And Floyd is on him, naked and tall and boosting him up into his arms so Riddle can wrap awkward legs around his waist so that they can kiss. “Mm...”
“Yeah,” Floyd murmurs. “So pretty, you know that? And these... They’re the color of shells, but soft.” A tongue strokes reverently along one of Riddle’s nipples, and he stifles a gasp at the wet, hot slide of Floyd’s mouth. “How do you want to do this?”
“Let me read the instructions,” Riddle says, and Floyd laughs fondly as he lets him down to sit cross-legged on the bed and pull out the little pamphlet included in the toy’s box. Power cycles, vibration patterns, charging... Riddle scans through, quick and efficient like he’s working his way through new material assigned for a class. “We need lubricant, apparently.”
“I got it,” Floyd says, and stoops to root around in the pockets of his abandoned uniform trousers. “I brought some with me, just in case... a ha!” He chucks a small bottle at Riddle, who fumbles it, and snorts as the item falls to the bed. “That was a great pass, come on, Goldfishie.”
“I pity your basketball teammates,” Riddle mutters. The lubricant seems straightforward enough, he decides, so he clicks the cap open and squirts a blob onto his fingers. “Do you think this is enough?”
“More,” Floyd says, and Riddle darts his head up to see those multicolored eyes nearly obscured by blown-wide pupils. “I wanna see you wet.”
Riddle feels his face heat impossibly warmer. “Rule two starts now,” he says, trying to hide his embarrassment behind the safety of following the parameters he laid out earlier. Floyd retreats to the chaise lounge with a pout, sprawling indecently to let Riddle see one long hand idly playing with his balls.
In the center of his bed, Riddle spreads his legs, and lets Floyd watch as he spreads the lubricant between his folds. It’s cold, and slippery, and he’s not going to mentally label it slimy because that’s just disgusting, but it is... a distinctively squishy feeling against his fingers.
“Wow,” Floyd breathes, and Riddle forgets about the sliminess and the cold and the embarrassment in the flood of heat that races through him at the sight of Floyd leaning in closer, seemingly transfixed by the way Riddle’s flesh gleams under the slick lubricant and his fingers. “You’re really pretty, Goldfishie.”
“You said that earlier,” Riddle mumbles.
Floyd shrugs. “And I’ll say it again, because ya are.”
He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to respond to that, so he chooses to ignore it in favor of picking up the little flower-shaped item and letting his fingers find the button to turn it on. A single press makes it shake alarmingly, and Riddle nearly drops it before he can get it turned off.
The muffled snort from the chaise lounge makes him shoot Floyd an irritated glare. “Do I have to add a fourth rule about not making noise?”
“I’m doin’ my best to follow ‘em,” Floyd says, “but that one seems like you’re settin’ me up to fail, Housewarden Rosehearts.”
Riddle flings a pillow at him.
He catches it easily, laughing, and tucks it behind his head, cozying in as his hand beckons. “Gimme the lube.”
So the little bottle clicks open again and Riddle gets to watch as Floyd wraps a slickened hand around an intimidatingly long dick, clearly reveling in the press and push of his fingertips in certain spots, and a thought springs unbidden to Riddle’s mind: I want to find out where every single one of those spots is on his body.
He pushes that down deep in favor of running through the toy’s settings again, manual open next to him. “So... I suppose I’ll begin,” he announces, and the little waver in his voice makes Floyd lean forward in anticipation. Turning on the lowest, steady setting, Riddle lowers two fingers of his left hand to spread the lips wide and lets out a shaky little breath at the liquid heat; the lube has warmed from its contact with his body, and now everything is warm and welcoming and soft.
Carefully, he lowers the mouth of the toy between his own petals. Frowns. Slides it slightly upward, then to the right.
“Sweet Seven,” he gasps.
Floyd grins, and his hand begins a slow, lazy stroke up and down that intimidating length. (Who gave the twins the right to be so tall in the first place, and then gave them penises to match? It simply isn’t fair.)
Riddle presses the rose and its sucking, pulsing vibrations deeper against his body, shuddering from the intensity now that he’s found the correct position.
“Ya like it, huh?” croons Floyd, and Riddle cracks one eye open to see him rubbing a flat palm over the tip of his cock. “So sexy, watchin’ your face go all pink when it hit the right spot. Tell me how it feels.”
“Mmngh,” Riddle says, and Floyd laughs.
But the forceful mechanical sucking feels isolated without additional stimulation, even at this low power, and Riddle moves his left hand up to cup the small swell of flesh sitting on his chest. His fingers skate across his skin a bit from the leftover lubricant, but his thumb finds purchase on the nipple and he arches into his touch with a breathy gasp. “F- feels... good,” he stammers, and Floyd groans; Riddle opens his eyes fully to watch as Floyd grabs his dick in a stranglehold that cannot feel good for a moment before he resumes his gentle up-and-down motion.
It is the first time Riddle has ever associated Floyd Leech with the word gentle, and he finds that he likes it. His finger finds the intensity adjustment before he consciously thinks about it, and he arches up on half a scream as the toy buzzes a bit more powerfully. “Ah- Flo- mmnn...”
“Cuuute,” Floyd whispers, and Riddle cannot decide where to look between the powerful magnetism of his eyes and the incredible draw of seeing his hand moving along his cock. “So cute, Goldfishie. Lemme see how good it makes you feel, okay?”
Riddle wishes he had taken this slower, given himself more time to enjoy it, but he’s never been one for long, luxuriant build-ups. He dives into things with all the intensity he can hold in his body, and this, apparently, is no different - he is lifting, somehow, adrift on an ocean and feeling it swell beneath him, astride a horse and feeling the steady rise and fall of a wild gallop with the wind in his hair. His very soul is being pulled free from its tethers to his body, concentrating in his clit and swirling into what has to be some kind of bespelled object because how else can he possibly explain the magic that this innocent little rose is sending to sparkle through every vein?
Floyd bites his lip, hand moving faster as Riddle writhes, and Riddle wants to kiss him. Next time, he’ll adjust the rules. “I don’t... I can’t...” he stammers, grasping for words to describe a sensation he has never known.
“Put a finger inside,” Floyd says, and the pleading note in his voice fucking wrecks Riddle almost as much as the bolt of pleasure from sliding a finger into his hole.
No wonder people are so obsessed with this, Riddle thinks wildly as he feels himself pulse close and soft around the finger. The clenching of these muscles is exquisitely pleasurable, but seeing Floyd hanging on his every movement and noise is power he has never contemplated, and he smirks a bit in between rising pulses of arousal. He’ll be able to bring the annoyance to his knees with this, once he learns to wield this power like he has everything else, he thinks, and he can’t wait to see Floyd fucking Leech on his knees with his mouth between Riddle’s thighs, because as good as the rose is...
He knows a mouth would be better, if only for the ability to fist his hand into Floyd’s hair and pull him closer with every suck.
That’s the image that catapults him, wailing, off the edge of the cliff. For a moment, Riddle thinks, oh. It feels like falling off a horse, because the swoop in his stomach and the sudden awareness of gravity and the rush of colors are all the same, but instead of pain and a sense of failure... he is above everything, ascending to a golden throne of pleasure.
When he returns to reality, the toy is lying beside him, making feeble sucking noises against his blanket. Floyd is boneless on his chaise, hand covered in creamy white from his own orgasm.
Riddle blinks, then laughs, and Floyd cracks an eye open to smile at him. “I definitely still feel like this was a present for me,” Riddle says, voice unsteady.
Floyd shakes his head. “Nah. Getting to watch you come like that was the best gift I got.” He stands and wipes his hand off on one of his own discarded socks (Riddle winces - why does he like this disgusting creature) before slinking over and poking experimentally at the buttons of the rose. It cycles through several pattern changes and intensities before he finally turns it off, and he tosses it gently to the side. “Goldfishie. Is Rule Two over for now?”
“Yes,” Riddle says, and welcomes Floyd into his bed. “Rule Two in the Floyd and Riddle Rulebook can be deleted, I think.”
“Permanently?”
“Permanently.”