[ The bushy dark tail behind him sways, the serpentine swish that speaks of pleasure, of play. One mustn't play with their food, etiquette he has no intention of following. Wrio has given himself over to him, he has asked for this. Pinocchio's grip loosens from around his nape, sweeping the curtain of Wriothesley's abnormally long hair...
...only to, with a flip of his wrist, swing the lot loosely around his wrist, grasping close to the root at the base of his skull and tugging at it, forcing his head slightly up off the mattress. Cool metal fingers dip into the waistband of the only other article of clothing Wriothesley wears, slowly curling into a fist. The gradually building pressure pops the button from the fly, lets him feel every jagged tooth of his zipper, until it starts to give and, with a purr, comes apart. ]
Lift, [ He commands with a pull on the leash he's made of Wriothesley's long hair, knocking one bent leg with his knee. The intention is the removal of those pants, one leg at a time, only to leave them crumpled at the edge of the bed once he complies, steel jointed digits ascending the furred muscle up the full length of his leg until he can grope the round of one cheek. ]
And is this how you want it? Taken like a mongrel?
[ There's something about this that feels delightfully forbidden, like a game they can play so long as they aren't caught. Whose memory is that, and whence it comes... are not questions he has time for right now, not with his need looming this large. ]
[Oh. He's not expecting the sudden roughness of having his hair pulled much like a leash. A choked cry slips from his lips as the other pulls his head back, pleasure blooming where it aches.] Yes!
[Drunk on the pain, he moves more instinctively than anything else, letting his pants be removed and tossed aside.]
Fuck. Pinocchio, I'll take it anyway you'll give it to me. [Who doesn't enjoy a bit of dirty talk? More so from a man usually so polite. He can't help but find himself so immensely turned on by it. Used and abused and filled completely. He wants it so much.] I want it. I want it so damn bad.
[And it probably shows. Wriothesley is already so wet. Slick trickles down his thighs from his hole and his cock was already hard, heavy, and dripping. He looks at Pinocchio with a desperate need, his body practically screaming for them to take him.] Come on. I want you to fill me up already.
[ Fingers grasp him by one cheek, spreading him — to inspect, judging by the way his shadow recedes — and finding the glisten of slick that he mistakes for lubricant. At the end of the day, they're one and the same, but it leads him to wonder and he lets himself narrate it aloud as his metal thumb tugs perilously close to his rim: ]
Did you play with yourself, or were you keeping yourself ready for someone?
[ A great, powerful surge of possessiveness grips him. He's his prey. The very thought that someone, anyone else might have happened upon Wriothesley, could have taken him for themselves flattens his ears, makes his tail lash and lips peel back from his teeth. The tension on his hair slackens. He needs the other hand for this, a softer, warmer thumb pressing, massaging the greasy slick into the pink folds of his hole. His other hand ascends the bow of his back, painting a long, wide path of cool, gradually warming his steel on his skin. ]
You're wet as if you were, [ he continues, the blunt tip of his thumb pressing, testing his willingness to swallow it up, ] Tell me.
Hearing the way the other speaks and demands him of answers makes him shudder in delight. It's embarrassing how turned on he is, with how more slick seems to try and drip out of his needy hole, at how possessive Pinocchio seems to have become.
He arches his back with a needy groan, hips rolling to try and take more of Pinocchio's finger into him. Is it shameless? Slutty? He doesn't care. He'd been good to wait this long when his suit has him so horny that it physically hurts.]
N-No! No one else! [Well, at least not that day. But, no, he's got enough of his head to remember that there wasn't anyone before Pinocchio where remnants of his time with them would be there.] It's- It's my suit. Makes it easier to be fucked. [He might have also been confused if this weren't the first time his suit had done this and had him producing slick that isn't normal for him to make.]
[ He doesn't belong to him, Pinocchio knows this, but isn't it nice to pretend? That the needy arch of Wriothesley's back isn't just because he's pulling at his rim, it's not only because thumb and a fingertip are nudging into his slick hole, tugging and working him open. Wolfishly territorial, he leans hard into this play of possessiveness, drinking deep of that heady draught that is Wrio's neediness, his desperation to justify.
Like he owes the puppet any explanation at all. He rewards him with his index finger twisting into him along with his thumb, hearing the obscene squelch of slick rushing to fill the crevices between the intruding digits. ]
Easier.
[ A growl, in tenor. A word like velvet-wrapped iron, and fingers starting to fuck into his willing hole, gliding on the slick he has his suit to thank. He... never knew a suit could do something like that. There's still so much he doesn't know, and this is not the time for his curiosity. ] Easier to be anyone else's, too.
[ His metal hand grips him by the root of his long hair, pulling at him, making his back arch just a little bit more. ]
Good that I found you first. [ Thumb and index finger pull free, a shining thread of clinging fluid stretching between his pink rim and his fingertip. He rubs his thumb through it, contemplating the glistening smear on his skin.
Honestly, he's got half a mind to have a taste, but the other half wants to hilt himself in him, and that side is winning out. So when his fingers crowd back into him, it's with the broader intrusion of his middle finger, too, just this side of rough. ]
[There's truly no harm when Wriothesley is so receptive to it. While the man would never wanted to be treated as an actual object to be used, it definitely does not apply in this situation when he knows that Pinocchio considers him more than something to possess. And right now? The rabbit heart of his is needy to be dominated and used by the small wolf that has him in their clutches.
A sobbing moan as the other yanks his head back, pain blossoming in such a wonderful way has his hands scrabbling to find something to take hold and ground him.]
Not anyone's. J-Just for you... [A low whine as he rolls his hips as the other starts to fuck him open with their fingers. The squelch each time Pinocchio presses his finger back into his wet hole is embarrassingly loud in his ears. It makes his face flush, but the way slick drips down his thigh and his cock leaking precum betrays how into this he was.]
[ There really are types of pain that Wrio likes. He's beginning to learn their outlines, like mapping out an unfamiliar shape in the dark. To see his pleasure writ large like this, in the flex of his back, in the sound that shakes from his lungs, the hungry scrabble of his hands... he needs to be closer, and one knee hikes up against the side of his thigh, nudging against one searching hand.
Wrio can feel him, the fat shape of a clothed cock leaning against the curve of one buttock, until he wiggles the fingers buried in him, provocatively. Patience frays as he rocks his fingers into him, leaning against him in a sway that offers the puppet no relief; he draws back his fingers, glistening, and the clatter of a fastening, the rustle of sturdy cloth soon sees the next warm shape to nudge at his hole is much broader than deft fingers.
And he doesn't even try to enter him. His cock skids against the slick, smearing it up the cleft of his ass, watching Wriothesley through the lowered veil of his dark lashes. ]
[His hand immediately digs nails into skin as he feels the warmth of the man's leg pressed against him. He barely acknowledges that though when he feels Pinocchio rock their cock against him and something about it truly makes his mind snap. The way he had been holding back and keeping some semblance of his mind shattered as the hunger of what to come rears its head and demolishing whatever inhibitions he had.
He has never wanted something so bad, but the way his body aches and cries to be filled almost makes him dizzy. All he can think about is the sizable cock rubbing against his backside and he practically whines because it's not in him.
Wriothesley is absolutely drenched and he'd might even be emabrrassed about it if not for the fact that there's a perfectly good cock right there to fill him.]
Pinocchio. [His tone is desperate and pleading.] Won't you stop teasing me already? I've been good for you haven't I? [He'll beg if he has to at this point.]
[ The pressure on his scalp relents, steel fingers carding into his hair, molding to the curve of his skull.
How strange the sense of victory and satisfaction where it mingles with the familiar compassion that plea kindles in his breast. His heart goes out to him — the puppet has teased too far, and his heart aches to hear him crumble — yet this beastly instinct to hunt and claim shows its proverbial fangs. It exults in his desperation.
This dichotomy is undivided where it matters: on what he ultimately wants.
He pursues it with the contradiction of a metal hand, a heavy and imposing crown keeping his head pinned to the mattress, and the lips pressing a soft and lingering kiss against the swell of his muscular shoulder, bent over his back. The way he chases it with teeth, gripping the meat of his trapezius as he takes himself in hand by the root, lines himself up to lean, lean until weight and gravity force his pliant rim to submit.
He's fortunate there's fur to blunt the pressure of his teeth, Pinocchio's strength isn't exactly being checked under the circumstances, but at least there's no risk of skin breaking. The sensation of his body gradually swallowing him in degrees, all slick and yielding heat summons a low rumble. ]
[If it were anyone else, if it were a stranger, Wriothesley might have resisted more. Would have snarled and thrash at being pushed down so roughly into the mattress. It's Pinocchio though and all it does is burn in the pit of his stomach and excites him that has his cock leaking precum and his hole dripping.
There's a delighted moan as he feels pain blossom where the other has sank teeth into and the burn of being stretched so wonderfully open by the smaller man's impressive cock. Hands bury themselves in the sheets as noises drip from his lips. Quiet, breathless little words of yes and more as Pinocchio fills him to the brim.]
A-Ah! Yes! Right there, sweetheart. [He clenches around Pinocchio's length, the loud squelch barely registering with how vocal he is. Loud and wanting, there's no shame left in the man in the wake of the feral hunger of his suit.]
[ As a being who sprang fully-formed into consciousness, Geppetto's creation doesn't have the origins to justify the primal instinct that mingles so easily with the capacity to hunt carved into his metal bones. To catch, to take and overpower, to hear him keen and feel him writhe as the puppet cleaves into him.
He understands the bliss on Wriothesley's wanton lips, he's felt it before, the sweet, agonizing experience of being opened up, of being so full there's no room for anything else. He wants that for him, to be the only name on his tongue, the only thought in his head. And it isn't his to take. Eyes almost close around the clutch of his body around his aching girth, the soft flat of his tongue presses firm against the skin caught between his teeth. It's almost painful, how tightly he's held. If he needed his breath, he might have been robbed of it.
The sizzle of pleasure can't be sustained on the grip of Wrio's eager body alone; he nudges against him, hip to seat, rubbing the full, fat shape of his cock inside him, and the knobby bulge beginning to fill up at the base pushes and pulls at his rim each time he hilts himself deep enough. Teeth finally release their bruising grip on his muscle, when he begins to rut into him in earnest, all but mounting him like the beasts they've become. ]
[Every part of him loves every moment of this. The rabbit heart of his delighted at being eaten by the other, be it the sinking of teeth into furred skin or to be filled to the brim by their massive cock. To be taken as he was, there was no better fate. Wriothesley himself is just as pleased. A man who didn't shy from things he wanted or just enjoying things like shameless sex.
He fists the sheets, desperate to keep himself grounded even as pleasure and pain swallow up his senses until the only thought in his mind is the man filling him so perfectly.
Wriothesley is far from a passive lover. Everytime Pinocchio thrusts into him, Wriothesley rolls his hips in return, their skin slapping against each other to fill the space with a cacophony of heavy breathing, moans, and the shameless sounds of body against body.
He feels it, the slow swelling trying to catch on his rim and fill him even more than he already was. He knows what it is, wants it.] Come on, Pinocchio. Give it to me. Fill me completely. [Yes, yes, yes, oh how he can't wait for it.]
[ His lip curls around a snarl: his. In no danger of straying or being stolen away, Wriothesley nevertheless is gripped by hands of seeming flesh and metal as if he is, by the sharps of his hips as he batters him towards ecstasy. The scent of his desire fills his nostrils; he can feel it, cooling where their wild fucking has made him drip, where the violence of his cock pistoning into him has flecked them in slick, and the sound...
Wanton, animal.
And such a sight Wriothesley makes, the bunching of muscle in furred shoulders and biceps, tapering off to fists twisted into bedsheets, the narrow waist bracketed by his hands. The strong lines of his back, arching for him, for more. It compels him to yank him by the hips to smack into his, then again, again, making sure he feels every violent thrust knock into his willing body.
He wants him to ache long after he's done being fucked, to remember who had caught and claimed him. To wring himself out into him and— what? For what purpose? The instinct is there if not the knowledge, he just wants to paint his insides with every ounce of his lust and love. Isn't that what he wants? Fill him, completely. ]
[The noises Pinocchio makes fills him with a fear that only leaves him moure aroused than fearful. Alight with lust, his senses seem to merely be stuck on the shape of Pinocchio's cock that fills him so wonderfully.
The aching pain burned something so pleasurable that he can only choke on the sounds that slip from his throat. The slap of skin, Wriothesley's cries, and Pinocchio's snarls was a symphony of sounds that filled the small space they had taken over.
Wriothesley comes first. A sobbing moan of the man's name on his lips as he spills his seed into the sheets underneath. Despite the way he clenches around Pinocchio's cock and his orgasm fills his mind his static, it does nothing to slow his movements. He continues to meet each thrust with a roll of his hips, chasing that pleasure even into oversensitivity. Lost in the throes of his suit and his rabbit senses, he could only want for being "eaten" alive as he was.]
[ Ears prick forward, the pink triangle of tongue that wets his lips a clear illustration of how he drinks down the sound of Wriothesley's ecstasy. Untouched, the man enjoys getting fucked enough to come like this; even the way his body quakes and grips him fills the puppet with a sense of soaring victory. He's pleased Wriothesley, he's making Wrio crumble under the weight of his pleasure. And Pinocchio's not finished with him, not by far. ]
That's it, [ he hilts himself in deep, a clap of his hips against his seat, ] I'll give it all to you.
[ The unrelenting chain of forceful thrusts continues unabated, even as Wriothesley's sensitivity might make it too much to bear. Twisting his long train of hair around his wrist and fist, he pulls, slow and firm as he pistons into him. ] A meal this fine, I want another serving. —Come here.
[ His metal arm pushes across his midsection, hefting him upright, back to Pinocchio's chest, planting a foot on the mattress so that he can fuck up into him. His tongue drags, wet and warm, up the rivulet of sweat clinging to his cheek. ]
[A yelp caught in his throat. Pain sears in a way that only makes him want for more of that burn. It feels too good. The pleasure. The pain. His body sings for the way that Pinocchio treats it. He wants to hurt like this. He wants the ache of it all.
Hands scrabble to find something to hold onto, nails digging into Pinocchio's sides as he reaches back to hold onto the other thrusting into him relentlessly. There's a needy sob that spills from the rabbit's lips, his cock still twitching and dripping cum as the smaller man continues to piston into him.
His mind is stuck in a haze that he doesn't realize how loud he is. He doesn't realize the way he cries out for more. For Pinocchio to be harsher, faster, deeper inside him. He's lost in the ecstasy, his first orgasm doing nothing to abate his needs after resisting his suit for so long.]
[ The need in Wriothesley's voice, so keen, so unabashedly raw, makes him hasten to get a more secure grip on him. His metal fingers sink into warm, pliant muscle, keeping him held up off his feet, knees bent and feet left to dangle in the air. He forces Wriothesley back against his chest, folded nearly in half, helpless but to endure.
The wolf's hot breath gusts over his throat, the position all but demands Wriothesly throw back his head over Pinocchio's shoulder, or let it swing as each slap of skin on skin makes his head bob forward. He pistons into him, driven by a primal hunger he could never have been made with. To take, to claim, to fill, and every cry torn from Wriothesley is one that sounds to his altered ears like sheer gratification.
This is what he was so desperately hungry for, and now he will feast.
He's every bit the beast this hunt demands of him, has made him into, marking up his neck, his shoulder with snaps and nips and bites hard enough to bruise. Holds his muscular thighs open, as though he won't let Wriothesley chase pleasure with the friction against his own skin, no, that all the pleasure he takes will be from the puppet's cock, brutal and unrelenting. ]
[All his senses feel like they're on fire. Every thrust shakes him to the core, carving him deep and leaving him empty when they pull out. It feels so good to be eaten up like this. To be of use to feed the wolfish man making him fall apart is the greatest thing he could be doing right now.
His head drops onto Pinocchio's shoulder, drools dripping down into sweat damp fur, his entire body only seems to know the pleasure being wrought through him and the shape of Pinocchio's cock. Pinocchio seems to take as he pleases and Wriothesley is nothing but ecstatic to offer it to them.
Their refusal to let him seek pleasure in any other way is almost humorous. He doesn't need anymore than whatever the beast gives him. He comes with a broken sob again, spilling more of his seed onto sheets. Every thrust and every bite is only fuel to his arousal and Wriothesley wonders how many times he might come before he's either milked dry or before Pinocchio is fully sated.
[ The Hunt makes him savage. Wriothesley's suit makes him insatiable. He's slick and perfect, taking the relentless pistoning of his cock like he was made to be bred like this. Pinocchio can't spare a thought beyond how desperately he wants to fill him full. His ecstasy isn't the only goal; the puppet wants him consumed, utterly, shaking himself to pieces on his knot.
It's impossible for him to gauge how long it is before he finally feels orgasm approach. In the interim, he has brought him back down to the debauched bed, has flipped him onto his back to hilt himself into Wriothesley again, his knees pushed up towards his generous chest. Wriothesley's long hair fans out behind his broad shoulders like a pale corona, the tufted fur over his chest and around his neckline clumped together with sweat.
He has him by the legs, just behind the knees, each pounding thrust clapping into his seat so roughly that Wriothesley's heels bounce off the backs of the puppet's shoulders each and every time. Sweat drips from him, but not from Pinocchio, whose pants and growls emit from lips parted around sharpened canines, wolfish ears pricked to catch every moan. ]
[Wriothesley has lost count on how long they've been at it. His body is completely pliant under Pinocchio's weight, hands unable to even cling to the sheets underneath him. Whimpers and moans to sobs and whines spill from his lips like an unending river. His gaze is unfocused, expression blissed out as Pinocchio fills him with their cock over and over again.]
P-Pinocchio... [He doesn't even know if he can feel pleasure so much his body just accepting what the puppet will give him. He's soaked in sweat, his pheromones heavy in the air, as though to entice the other to breed him full.
He writhes a little, shaky hands trying to reach out to them.] C-Come on...fill me up.
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armwriostle) wrote2024-07-22 12:13 am
no subject
[ The bushy dark tail behind him sways, the serpentine swish that speaks of pleasure, of play. One mustn't play with their food, etiquette he has no intention of following. Wrio has given himself over to him, he has asked for this. Pinocchio's grip loosens from around his nape, sweeping the curtain of Wriothesley's abnormally long hair...
...only to, with a flip of his wrist, swing the lot loosely around his wrist, grasping close to the root at the base of his skull and tugging at it, forcing his head slightly up off the mattress. Cool metal fingers dip into the waistband of the only other article of clothing Wriothesley wears, slowly curling into a fist. The gradually building pressure pops the button from the fly, lets him feel every jagged tooth of his zipper, until it starts to give and, with a purr, comes apart. ]
Lift, [ He commands with a pull on the leash he's made of Wriothesley's long hair, knocking one bent leg with his knee. The intention is the removal of those pants, one leg at a time, only to leave them crumpled at the edge of the bed once he complies, steel jointed digits ascending the furred muscle up the full length of his leg until he can grope the round of one cheek. ]
And is this how you want it? Taken like a mongrel?
[ There's something about this that feels delightfully forbidden, like a game they can play so long as they aren't caught. Whose memory is that, and whence it comes... are not questions he has time for right now, not with his need looming this large. ]
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[Drunk on the pain, he moves more instinctively than anything else, letting his pants be removed and tossed aside.]
Fuck. Pinocchio, I'll take it anyway you'll give it to me. [Who doesn't enjoy a bit of dirty talk? More so from a man usually so polite. He can't help but find himself so immensely turned on by it. Used and abused and filled completely. He wants it so much.] I want it. I want it so damn bad.
[And it probably shows. Wriothesley is already so wet. Slick trickles down his thighs from his hole and his cock was already hard, heavy, and dripping. He looks at Pinocchio with a desperate need, his body practically screaming for them to take him.] Come on. I want you to fill me up already.
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Did you play with yourself, or were you keeping yourself ready for someone?
[ A great, powerful surge of possessiveness grips him. He's his prey. The very thought that someone, anyone else might have happened upon Wriothesley, could have taken him for themselves flattens his ears, makes his tail lash and lips peel back from his teeth. The tension on his hair slackens. He needs the other hand for this, a softer, warmer thumb pressing, massaging the greasy slick into the pink folds of his hole. His other hand ascends the bow of his back, painting a long, wide path of cool, gradually warming his steel on his skin. ]
You're wet as if you were, [ he continues, the blunt tip of his thumb pressing, testing his willingness to swallow it up, ] Tell me.
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Hearing the way the other speaks and demands him of answers makes him shudder in delight. It's embarrassing how turned on he is, with how more slick seems to try and drip out of his needy hole, at how possessive Pinocchio seems to have become.
He arches his back with a needy groan, hips rolling to try and take more of Pinocchio's finger into him. Is it shameless? Slutty? He doesn't care. He'd been good to wait this long when his suit has him so horny that it physically hurts.]
N-No! No one else! [Well, at least not that day. But, no, he's got enough of his head to remember that there wasn't anyone before Pinocchio where remnants of his time with them would be there.] It's- It's my suit. Makes it easier to be fucked. [He might have also been confused if this weren't the first time his suit had done this and had him producing slick that isn't normal for him to make.]
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Like he owes the puppet any explanation at all. He rewards him with his index finger twisting into him along with his thumb, hearing the obscene squelch of slick rushing to fill the crevices between the intruding digits. ]
Easier.
[ A growl, in tenor. A word like velvet-wrapped iron, and fingers starting to fuck into his willing hole, gliding on the slick he has his suit to thank. He... never knew a suit could do something like that. There's still so much he doesn't know, and this is not the time for his curiosity. ] Easier to be anyone else's, too.
[ His metal hand grips him by the root of his long hair, pulling at him, making his back arch just a little bit more. ]
Good that I found you first. [ Thumb and index finger pull free, a shining thread of clinging fluid stretching between his pink rim and his fingertip. He rubs his thumb through it, contemplating the glistening smear on his skin.
Honestly, he's got half a mind to have a taste, but the other half wants to hilt himself in him, and that side is winning out. So when his fingers crowd back into him, it's with the broader intrusion of his middle finger, too, just this side of rough. ]
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A sobbing moan as the other yanks his head back, pain blossoming in such a wonderful way has his hands scrabbling to find something to take hold and ground him.]
Not anyone's. J-Just for you... [A low whine as he rolls his hips as the other starts to fuck him open with their fingers. The squelch each time Pinocchio presses his finger back into his wet hole is embarrassingly loud in his ears. It makes his face flush, but the way slick drips down his thigh and his cock leaking precum betrays how into this he was.]
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Wrio can feel him, the fat shape of a clothed cock leaning against the curve of one buttock, until he wiggles the fingers buried in him, provocatively. Patience frays as he rocks his fingers into him, leaning against him in a sway that offers the puppet no relief; he draws back his fingers, glistening, and the clatter of a fastening, the rustle of sturdy cloth soon sees the next warm shape to nudge at his hole is much broader than deft fingers.
And he doesn't even try to enter him. His cock skids against the slick, smearing it up the cleft of his ass, watching Wriothesley through the lowered veil of his dark lashes. ]
You always know just what to say.
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He has never wanted something so bad, but the way his body aches and cries to be filled almost makes him dizzy. All he can think about is the sizable cock rubbing against his backside and he practically whines because it's not in him.
Wriothesley is absolutely drenched and he'd might even be emabrrassed about it if not for the fact that there's a perfectly good cock right there to fill him.]
Pinocchio. [His tone is desperate and pleading.] Won't you stop teasing me already? I've been good for you haven't I? [He'll beg if he has to at this point.]
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How strange the sense of victory and satisfaction where it mingles with the familiar compassion that plea kindles in his breast. His heart goes out to him — the puppet has teased too far, and his heart aches to hear him crumble — yet this beastly instinct to hunt and claim shows its proverbial fangs. It exults in his desperation.
This dichotomy is undivided where it matters: on what he ultimately wants.
He pursues it with the contradiction of a metal hand, a heavy and imposing crown keeping his head pinned to the mattress, and the lips pressing a soft and lingering kiss against the swell of his muscular shoulder, bent over his back. The way he chases it with teeth, gripping the meat of his trapezius as he takes himself in hand by the root, lines himself up to lean, lean until weight and gravity force his pliant rim to submit.
He's fortunate there's fur to blunt the pressure of his teeth, Pinocchio's strength isn't exactly being checked under the circumstances, but at least there's no risk of skin breaking. The sensation of his body gradually swallowing him in degrees, all slick and yielding heat summons a low rumble. ]
no subject
There's a delighted moan as he feels pain blossom where the other has sank teeth into and the burn of being stretched so wonderfully open by the smaller man's impressive cock. Hands bury themselves in the sheets as noises drip from his lips. Quiet, breathless little words of yes and more as Pinocchio fills him to the brim.]
A-Ah! Yes! Right there, sweetheart. [He clenches around Pinocchio's length, the loud squelch barely registering with how vocal he is. Loud and wanting, there's no shame left in the man in the wake of the feral hunger of his suit.]
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He understands the bliss on Wriothesley's wanton lips, he's felt it before, the sweet, agonizing experience of being opened up, of being so full there's no room for anything else. He wants that for him, to be the only name on his tongue, the only thought in his head. And it isn't his to take. Eyes almost close around the clutch of his body around his aching girth, the soft flat of his tongue presses firm against the skin caught between his teeth. It's almost painful, how tightly he's held. If he needed his breath, he might have been robbed of it.
The sizzle of pleasure can't be sustained on the grip of Wrio's eager body alone; he nudges against him, hip to seat, rubbing the full, fat shape of his cock inside him, and the knobby bulge beginning to fill up at the base pushes and pulls at his rim each time he hilts himself deep enough. Teeth finally release their bruising grip on his muscle, when he begins to rut into him in earnest, all but mounting him like the beasts they've become. ]
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He fists the sheets, desperate to keep himself grounded even as pleasure and pain swallow up his senses until the only thought in his mind is the man filling him so perfectly.
Wriothesley is far from a passive lover. Everytime Pinocchio thrusts into him, Wriothesley rolls his hips in return, their skin slapping against each other to fill the space with a cacophony of heavy breathing, moans, and the shameless sounds of body against body.
He feels it, the slow swelling trying to catch on his rim and fill him even more than he already was. He knows what it is, wants it.] Come on, Pinocchio. Give it to me. Fill me completely. [Yes, yes, yes, oh how he can't wait for it.]
no subject
Wanton, animal.
And such a sight Wriothesley makes, the bunching of muscle in furred shoulders and biceps, tapering off to fists twisted into bedsheets, the narrow waist bracketed by his hands. The strong lines of his back, arching for him, for more. It compels him to yank him by the hips to smack into his, then again, again, making sure he feels every violent thrust knock into his willing body.
He wants him to ache long after he's done being fucked, to remember who had caught and claimed him. To wring himself out into him and— what? For what purpose? The instinct is there if not the knowledge, he just wants to paint his insides with every ounce of his lust and love. Isn't that what he wants? Fill him, completely. ]
no subject
The aching pain burned something so pleasurable that he can only choke on the sounds that slip from his throat. The slap of skin, Wriothesley's cries, and Pinocchio's snarls was a symphony of sounds that filled the small space they had taken over.
Wriothesley comes first. A sobbing moan of the man's name on his lips as he spills his seed into the sheets underneath. Despite the way he clenches around Pinocchio's cock and his orgasm fills his mind his static, it does nothing to slow his movements. He continues to meet each thrust with a roll of his hips, chasing that pleasure even into oversensitivity. Lost in the throes of his suit and his rabbit senses, he could only want for being "eaten" alive as he was.]
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That's it, [ he hilts himself in deep, a clap of his hips against his seat, ] I'll give it all to you.
[ The unrelenting chain of forceful thrusts continues unabated, even as Wriothesley's sensitivity might make it too much to bear. Twisting his long train of hair around his wrist and fist, he pulls, slow and firm as he pistons into him. ] A meal this fine, I want another serving. —Come here.
[ His metal arm pushes across his midsection, hefting him upright, back to Pinocchio's chest, planting a foot on the mattress so that he can fuck up into him. His tongue drags, wet and warm, up the rivulet of sweat clinging to his cheek. ]
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Hands scrabble to find something to hold onto, nails digging into Pinocchio's sides as he reaches back to hold onto the other thrusting into him relentlessly. There's a needy sob that spills from the rabbit's lips, his cock still twitching and dripping cum as the smaller man continues to piston into him.
His mind is stuck in a haze that he doesn't realize how loud he is. He doesn't realize the way he cries out for more. For Pinocchio to be harsher, faster, deeper inside him. He's lost in the ecstasy, his first orgasm doing nothing to abate his needs after resisting his suit for so long.]
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The wolf's hot breath gusts over his throat, the position all but demands Wriothesly throw back his head over Pinocchio's shoulder, or let it swing as each slap of skin on skin makes his head bob forward. He pistons into him, driven by a primal hunger he could never have been made with. To take, to claim, to fill, and every cry torn from Wriothesley is one that sounds to his altered ears like sheer gratification.
This is what he was so desperately hungry for, and now he will feast.
He's every bit the beast this hunt demands of him, has made him into, marking up his neck, his shoulder with snaps and nips and bites hard enough to bruise. Holds his muscular thighs open, as though he won't let Wriothesley chase pleasure with the friction against his own skin, no, that all the pleasure he takes will be from the puppet's cock, brutal and unrelenting. ]
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His head drops onto Pinocchio's shoulder, drools dripping down into sweat damp fur, his entire body only seems to know the pleasure being wrought through him and the shape of Pinocchio's cock. Pinocchio seems to take as he pleases and Wriothesley is nothing but ecstatic to offer it to them.
Their refusal to let him seek pleasure in any other way is almost humorous. He doesn't need anymore than whatever the beast gives him. He comes with a broken sob again, spilling more of his seed onto sheets. Every thrust and every bite is only fuel to his arousal and Wriothesley wonders how many times he might come before he's either milked dry or before Pinocchio is fully sated.
When he'll be fully sated himself.]
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It's impossible for him to gauge how long it is before he finally feels orgasm approach. In the interim, he has brought him back down to the debauched bed, has flipped him onto his back to hilt himself into Wriothesley again, his knees pushed up towards his generous chest. Wriothesley's long hair fans out behind his broad shoulders like a pale corona, the tufted fur over his chest and around his neckline clumped together with sweat.
He has him by the legs, just behind the knees, each pounding thrust clapping into his seat so roughly that Wriothesley's heels bounce off the backs of the puppet's shoulders each and every time. Sweat drips from him, but not from Pinocchio, whose pants and growls emit from lips parted around sharpened canines, wolfish ears pricked to catch every moan. ]
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P-Pinocchio... [He doesn't even know if he can feel pleasure so much his body just accepting what the puppet will give him. He's soaked in sweat, his pheromones heavy in the air, as though to entice the other to breed him full.
He writhes a little, shaky hands trying to reach out to them.] C-Come on...fill me up.