armwriostle | ♦️ [OVERFLOW FOR @THISCLOCKWORKHEART] ♦️

[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.

When he'll be fully sated himself.]

[ 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.

♦️ [OVERFLOW FOR @THISCLOCKWORKHEART] ♦️

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject