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peacockstop2024-10-15 09:00 pm
TDM 06
【 Thank you for choosing the Golden Peacock, 5-star resort and casino. You are currently registered as a WILDCARD in our system.
On behalf of the house and resort, we would like to advise all Game 52 players to exercise caution around the Golden Peacock for the next few weeks. The veil between 'what is' and 'what has been' grows thin and the threads of fate have tangled in unexpected ways. We are currently observing how these two phenomena behave when they occur simultaneously and act in concert.
We advise that all guests monitor their physical states until the veil thickens once again and the threads of fate return to running parallel. If you find yourself undergoing any strange transformations, please report to the Broken Wing clinic for observation. We will do our utmost to make sure you are comfortable during this time.
You may also notice other strange phenomena around the Golden Peacock while the veil is thin. Please continue to exercise caution. New wayward spirits have joined us during this time. While spirits are crossing, it is possible for guests to get swept along into the ghostly realm.
As always, please let us know if there is anything we can do to improve your stay. 】
HEADS
TAILS
MAIN LOBBY
BACK HALLWAYS & STAIRS
MONSTER MASH
THE VALE
SMOKED EGG
BALANCE RETURNS
OOC NOTES
▶ All characters on the TDM are WILDCARDS, which means they have not yet been assigned a card value. Suits will not manifest until characters are accepted into the game.
▶ All TDMs are game canon. This TDM acts as the game's October event. Changes to the above locations will ICly be present from October 15th - November 3rd. All supernatural phenomenon will increase in strength over time, culminating in peak activity on All Hallows' Eve. The days following Halloween will relax, leading into eventual normalcy. Some locations are spared the supernatural frenzy, so players can play as normal if they wish to avoid these tropes/prompts. Players may assume that the supernatural come and go in the above specifically incorporated locations.
▶ Current characters may top level on the TDM. Any current characters posting to the TDM should note they are current in their subject header.
▶ The top level directory is for new characters only. We want to make sure new characters are prioritized and receive attention! If you would be interested in a game invitation, you can note that in your comment header.
▶ If you aren't satisfied with these prompts, please feel free to check out our LOCATIONS to explore more of the resort!
▶ Smut threads that take place on this TDM can be used for rewards. If both parties in the smut thread join the game, you may retroactively apply the character's initial card values to your 52 bank. If one character does not join the game the thread will not be applicable toward rewards (as that character would not have a card value). The character that does join would still receive a small payout for the encounter. Hopefully it was a fun thread regardless!
▶ We ask you to kindly add content warnings to your threads as appropriate. This TDM in particular has the potential to get real wild, so we want to emphasize this request!
▶ If you do not currently have permissions and kinks listed in your character’s journal we suggest leaving a note in your top level of any limits or boundaries for other players to reference.
▶ Go forth and let your freak flag fly!
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His shoulder shrieks with agony. The puppet is used to pain.
Pinocchio knows the frame of his friend, even transformed. Knows his scent. Recognizes this ever-reliable instinct to protect others and his affinity for water. There is no one else it could be, when Pinocchio has just enough time to think, hunched over his bowed shoulders, his elbows digging into the soft earth beside the pool. ]
Wriothesley—
[ A watery gasp.
The puppet reaches for one of the three heads that crown his friend, pushing one hand into his salt and pepper fur. He isn't sure which set of eyes to look into when he turns his head, and swivels to look at them all, stunned to silence. The transformed may not have sprouted three heads, but they certainly underwent horrific bodily transformations, and Pinocchio has never known them to be anything but fatal or permanent.
If this had been an unknown, this wouldn't gut him so. He knows this. It matters because Wriothesley has always mattered, and this makes him a little closer to something human. Something that also... matters.
And he never wants to give up on a friend the way his creator-- but... the way he is now, will Pinocchio's tolerance only prolong suffering? He has to ask. He has to know that it's still him, that his friend is cognizant, that he can still be saved. ]
Is it... still you? Wrio—
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When the other reaches out to bury their fingers into wet fur, Wriothesley's tail starts to wag and there's a content sound in the back of one of the heads' throats.
It's then that the three heads start to nose and sniff at the smaller man, pressing his snouts against wet skin, lapping up water with his tongue, and seemingly taking in the puppet's entirety.
Familiar. His.
His.
Ears swivel and turn and the two heads on the side lift a little to take in their surroundings while the head in the center continues to sniff and lick at Pinocchio's face. Eventually he lifts his head with a growl. Yes, this was familiar and his and he couldn't let anyone take what was his away from him again. It's with a snarl then that he moves to lift Pinocchio up to whisk him away to find somewhere hidden and secluded. He won't lose what's his again.]
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His behavior, as he's nosed at, sniffed (metal, machine oil, water, and the sweet, cloying residue smeared on him by those tentacles), is so surreal that Pinocchio startles with a baffled laugh. It acts as a valve, venting off the stress still singing through him — those things are still in the water, they might come after him again, but this time he isn't alone, and Wriothesley is safe.
Changed, but he's always been safe.
He doesn't have time to ask any number of the questions that have bubbled up in the last few moments, as he's caught up and carried off. There's little to do but cling so that his loping pace doesn't have his heavy limbs swinging and banging into his bulky frame, craning to look where they're headed. Wriothesley moves swiftly; even if he chafes being moved under another's power (just puppet things), what complicates it is his trust. And his desire to put as much distance between himself and that awful pool. He couldn't have made this trek so quickly on his own. ]
This is far enough— [ He feels the air around them getting closer, they've entered a tunnel, he thinks. A cave? The Vale is full of places where anything might hide. Is this where he's been riding out the transformation? Or just trying to find somewhere safe? ]
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He puts Pinocchio down gently, only to crowd the man's space again. This time, the way he licks the other seems to have more intent. The lingering residue of the tentacles bothers him. It gets under his skin and itches in a way that frustrates him. He doesn't want anyone or anything's lingering scent on Pinocchio. No, he intends to drown this man in his own scent and let everyone know that they can't just so casually touch the other. Use them. He won't let that happen.
The three heads run their tongue over any exposed skin, clawed hands pulling at tattered clothes to expose more of the smaller man to him. Wriothesley's ears twitch and swivel, and his gaze seems to be aware enough that he seems to be there, even if the only sounds he makes are low growls and huffs.
Enough of him is aware, but it seems like speaking verbally is still out of reach. All Pinocchio can figure is that the man is mostly there, but the influences of the resort had taken ahold.]
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Thank— uh?
[ The licking makes him flinch with surprise. One had surprised a helpless laugh out of him, but the onslaught of all three has him squeezing shut his eyes, trying to lean back when there's nowhere to go. Wriothesley has him hemmed in, and the heat of his body in contrast with the cold stone at his back leaves him keenly aware that he's cold, wet, and with nothing but rags between him and the elements.
Rags, he realizes, that Wriothesley is determined to peel from his body. He shudders, torn momentarily between two opposing reactions. His concern for the change in his friend wins out over the interest unfurling in his gut. Strange though his transformation is, it's still Wrio, who has charmed and been cherished since they met.
A few objecting noises isn't enough; Pinocchio spreads one hand over a face each, pushing for space with an exasperated: ] Hey!
[ A moment's scrutiny is all it takes before Pinocchio's shove eases, the worry and annoyance pinching his expression softens into fondness, compassion. It — a nebulous force that could be the House, could be whatever's causing all this, he's never tried to understand it — has a tight grip on Wrio. His head thumps into the stone behind him, his chest heaving in an exhale. ]
It's like the hunting game. [ When the puppet became a predatory wolf, and his friend the rabbit-hearted prey. The territorial instinct that made him so possessive of a man he'd never dream of binding to himself, and yet... it brought such visceral satisfaction. Are their roles reversed? Hunter and hunted? Except Wrio can't really help but give himself over to the role he plays. And he would want to know that he's done no harm, that he's wanted.
Fingers soften their touch, cradling the cheek of one, threading into the furry hair of the other, then brushing his knuckles over the jaw of the third. The moment's tenderness gives way to a show of stubbornness, as he tips up his chin in challenge. ] Lucky you're already in the Vale, saves me the trouble of hunting you down.
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There's a slow wag of his tail when he sees the way the man's expression falls into something more fond and soft.
It's Pinocchio's words that incite him. The puppet will suddenly find themselves pinned to the earthy floor, the beastman putting the bulk of his weight on the smaller frame. He snarls, but the thump of his tail and the way that the other heads nips and bites in a way that seems more playful than intent on mauling the puppet.
The same can't be said about the remnants of Pinocchio's clothes as Wriothesley really just shreds whatever remnants of it to pieces so that clawed hands can start roaming over smooth skin. His nails drag across, leaving little angry red marks all over, but never breaking skin.]
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(An echo of Ergo, soft fragments of rough play between rambunctious boys, gentler times.)
Much like Pinocchio's ability to blush, the lines that his clawed fingers raise on freckled skin are a convincing affectation built into him by his creator. All too soon, they'll fade, just like he doesn't bruise or flush when struck. It hasn't robbed him of sensation, however, that he feels as keenly as any human. The puppet's mouth opens around a soft shiver of breath at the hot sting of his claws. The swell of yes that blooms in him in their wake changes his perception right away.
How swiftly terror has been turned into exhilaration. An attack really is different when it comes from him.
Pinocchio can't get up. He struggles to anyway, bumping his forehead into one of the three as his left arm whirs and creaks, laboring to push his shoulder up off the ground. ] Fancy playing rough, do you? [ he sounds near breathless, a little wild for taunting him. There's no throwing him off, no rolling his bigger frame over, not nearly enough leverage while pinned down like this, and so Pinocchio does all he can, pushing a hand into the thick fur at the back of one head and pulling, a fistful near the root. ] Come on then!
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Clawed hands keep Pinocchio pinned down as he continues to keep them under him. Fight burns in his chest, ignited by Pinocchio's struggle. And he feels the way arousal takes the puppet. He smells it on the other and the beast inside him sings with satisfaction that the other is reacting in kind.
And Pinocchio can feel it. The sizable length in Wriothesley's pants pressing down against him as he rocks his hips. Shameless in his movements, though there probably isn't space to even consider shame in the wake of baser instincts taking hold. To dominate and take them so no one else can. A silly thought in the grand scheme of things, but something that takes his mind.
One head sinks teeth into Pinocchio's shoulder while another head seems to run their tongue over Pinocchio's face, as though trying to get his tongue passed the seam of their lips.]
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The gasp that follows soon has him welcoming a questing tongue — longer than he remembers — that crowds into his mouth. He chases away every trace of that sweet-slick residue the tentacles had left behind, and Pinocchio indulges, sucking on the supple muscle before he leans his head back, mouth wet, pupils blown wide. ]
Such fight in you, [ He huffs a breathless sound, almost a laugh — steel fingers palm his ass through his pants, pulling him flush with his own naked body, unabashedly frotting against the shape he can feel fattening up on the other side of that fabric barrier. ] For someone so gentle.
[ For someone with a heart like his. Great, generous. Forgiving. Despite his aching shoulder, he noses into the cheek of the face that has done it, that hand is working through the pain, thumbing loose the button of his pants, trying to pull it open so that he can take him in hand. ]
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In this form, Wriothesley is larger in every aspect, a hulking figure, yet his touches are caring and gentle when need be. One of the heads licks at where he had bitten down as though to soothe.
When Pinocchio manages to free Wriothesley's cock from his pants, he'll find an impressive cock already half hard from the way the two had moved against each other. His basic instincts are chasing it all too, a rock of hips into the smaller man's hand with a groan.]
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He's not thinking of the consequences, his breath shivering out in a hushed hhhh as the squeeze of Wrio's jaw digs the points of his jagged teeth into his synthetic skin. There's a limit to the give his flesh has, supported by buried metal and layers of insulating material, but he's left slow-recovering dents in his skin with his teeth. The swipe of his tongue over it feels like a bruise, even if it isn't; he squirms with a discontented whine.
Pinocchio's heart lurches. Isn't he... bigger? he observes. The realization makes him tingle all over. ]
That's it— [ he encourages. Feeling his half-hard cock push into his fist, big and hungry, prompts a squeeze of his fist. It moves up towards his flared tip and his shoulder smarts impressively as he pumps his arm between them. ] You want me to behave? [ His breath ruffles in the short fur, his lips fluttering against one of his faces, the soft, low tenor of his voice thread through with strain. ] Want me to be good for you?
[ Gradually, the shuttle of his grip speeds up, a blatant provocation. He's deliberately keying him up, exhilarated in spite of the risk. At once, he buries his grin against the side of one jaw, fingers splaying loose, denying him that friction. ] You'll have to make me.
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In his current state though, he isn't thinking about that reality. This was a man at his most basic instincts and wanting so much to dominate.
Wriothesley lets out a loud howl at Pinocchio's words. Something beastly unfurls in his chest and Pinocchio will suddenly find his hands pinned down under Wriothesley's clawed ones, one head having the smaller man's throat between his teeth. A clear show of dominance.
Would Wriothesley actually snap his mouth shut around their throat. Absolutely not. It's more of the spirit that he was asserting himself. But hey, maybe there's still the thrill of having a large three-headed beast having your life right between his teeth.
The other two heads stare at Pinocchio intensely, waiting to see if they're going to continue to act bratty or relent.]
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Like a severed string, his laugh is cut short by how Wrio bears down on him with body, with clawed hands and sharp teeth, his chin tipped back and blue eyes wide under the disheveled tumble of his dark hair. The breath that puffs over his throat is hot and wet, points of sharp help him identify everywhere one of his teeth threatens.
Maybe he does this because there's a comfort he's always denying himself. Something forbidden and so gratifying about submitting to his will. To fall, knowing there are arms to catch him, that he won't be dashed to pieces at the bottom. His eyes close.
He swings a leg around Wrio's trim waist, then crosses the other over it, heels digging as if he means to climb his body somehow. With a pull mighty enough for only his manufactured core, he yanks at him by the hips, trapping his recently-freed cock between them. Without the leverage to grind with more purpose, the powerful squeeze of his legs will have to suffice.
With one head, Wriothesley might have missed the way submission softens him, that in spite of the grappling attempt to take some measure of control over their pleasure, his expression has slackened somewhere between bliss and yearning, eyes closed and lips parted.
The flutter of his lashes catches him being watched by the other two faces; Pinocchio's mouth presses, wry and a little defensive. ]
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The beastman ruts against the puppet shamelessly, sliding their cocks together with reckless abandon. It leaves the three-headed beast groaning, most likely the most human noise he has made since the two had met.
But this isn't enough. It doesn't quell the burning want to breed. The slide of their cocks isn't the same as him sheathing his into a tight warmth and spilling it full with his seed. He can't hold back on it forever either. The rutting isn't able to keep him satisfied and he eventually chases for more. He finally abandons Pinocchio's neck and face, one of his clawed hands reaching to grab one of Pinocchio's legs.
Wriothesley yanks at Pinocchio's legs to pull them loose from his waist and force them to turn around so they were no longer on their back. Maybe a little rougher than he should be, but didn't they want to be roughened up in the first place? Who is he to deny them just that?]
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He has never been taught to reject pleasure. Never really been taught it in the first place, it's just a thing programmed into him to make him more obedient — to crave praise, to find satisfaction in a job done well, the thrill of battle. Pinocchio could have contented himself with this, with the pair of them tangled, frotting together until completion or frustration broke them apart from one another. As long as it's him...
Pinocchio turns his head, cheek tipped towards one bare shoulder, chasing him with his eyes. ] What's wrong? [ as if he's leaving from some failing on his own part, like the puppet's done something to deserve an abandonment he anticipates — something he won't unpack later, because he hasn't a conscience around to prompt him to.
Scarcely have those words left him when he's being yanked at. His steel arm clatters noisily against the ground when he's flipped over. He turns his cheek against the ground, eyes trained back over his shoulder with an alertness that borders on something animal. Realization trots in, as late and confident as an errant tabby. He shuffles up on one elbow, metal fingers chattering against the ground as he seeks to push himself up on that arm, then to reach for him, to grasp and pull at him. ]
Come back here— [ would he even dare to be so demanding if it was someone else? He's not so sure, rare are those he feels comfortable giving voice to his innermost thoughts and desires, not because he doubts them, but because he doubts they matter to anyone else. ] We're not done..!
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They weren't done. Oh, he knows that. Pinocchio just hasn't realized what the beastman's intention was. Luckily, Wriothesley was in no mindset to tease and string them along. The middle head presses his snout against the crevice of Pinocchio's ass, his other hand grasping one of the cheeks to spread it as a long tongue licks a long stripe from the perineum to the smaller man's entrance. It's then that he laps at the sensitive ring of muscle, not entering it, but merely making it wet with his saliva as he tastes the other on his tongue.
A pleased rumble as one of the other heads nips at the other cheeks. Nothing that would leave marks yet. That, of course, is only a matter of time given how rough the man has been about their copulating for now.]
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Thank God he refrains from saying anything, lest his inexperience cost him something that turns out to be good for him. (Except that's not what concerns Pinocchio the most, is it? It's always and ever been the satisfaction of the people he's been with... so why...)
Wriothesley's tongue is warm. Supple. Wet, decadently so. And Pinocchio isn't prepared for any of it, as he licks up the seam of his ass, as he seeks out the puckered rim of his taint. He pulls in one long breath, shocked, because he for all the scant tenderness the puppet has ever known, he has certainly never felt this.
The long, silken heat of a tongue striping him from tight balls to rim, he has never been attended to like this.
Pinocchio bites back his inhale, tipping his head down, jaw hanging open around the wordless shape of his desire. His lashes fall over his eyes next, as he tries to disguise his ecstacy with the tilt of his head, the curtain of his dark and wavy hair. He might lie, he might lie more freely than his manufactured brethren, and yet... ]
Your... your teeth— [ he groans, his spine arching, hips tilting, like he's seeking out more of that welcome contact, that sweet touch. ] Your tongue— Wriothesley..!
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It's a good thing, though Wriothesley might be more amused than anything if Pinocchio reacted to the idea of the man's saliva on him when their first meeting was him giving Pinocchio a messy blowjob. He's more enraptured in the salty taste of skin that lingers on his tongue and the sweet sounds of the puppet.
He teases the rim a little more though before pushing his heavy tongue through the ring of muscle and starts to press the wet muscle in, taking his time pressing against those heated walls and spreading the man open as he truly gets a taste of the other. Delighted, his tail wags, ears perked as his two heads are also observant to how Pinocchio takes all these sensations in.
Oh, how he intends to have this man fall apart under his ministrations.]
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He likes it, the riot of sensation when he's being opened up, that pull on his sensitive rim. But Wrio's tongue is softer, wetter than Pinocchio's own fingers, and the feeling of smooth muscle pressing, then sliding into him pushes a long, shivery note from him, his head tipped back, mouth open, hands fisted on the ground. That's really—
The puppet's scarcely able to keep still for him, Wriothesley's tongue fucks him open and Pinocchio lifts a trembling foot from the ground, shaking, before he remembers to put it down; his spine flexes, the flushed arch of the cock swaying between his thighs is drooling a thin, glistening thread of pre. His lashes flutter, one lid shut, but when he tries to speak, turning his face to peer back at him, it's as though pleasure has swept away all the words programmed into him.
Anyone passing near to Wrio's cavernous hideaway might think it haunted for the litany of wordless cries echoing off craggy walls. His balls, tight against the base of his cock, ache with impending release. Tempted to, one pale hand shoves down under him, balling into a fist as he resists taking himself into hand. He grips high on the back of one thigh, instead, fingertips digging into his pliant cheek.
If he wants to see him crumble, he's got it — he feels everything with the severity and vulnerability of one still unused to such pleasures, and the next sigh from him sounds more like a sob of ecstasy, affirmation and plea at once, his body beginning to quake from sheer stimulation. ]
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He's relentless, pressing his tongue as far in as he can, letting his tongue taste and feel ever crevice of the other. Drool drips from his chin, but messy had never been a problem for Wriothesley. He liked the mess, the tangle of limbs, the absolute debauchery that sex can become. It's fun and wild that way.
He eats every moment and everything Pinocchio offers to him as though he had always been starving for the smaller man.
Is it that he noticed the want to touch himself or is it that he merely did not want to neglect any part of the puppet? Does it matter? Wriothesley wraps one of his large hands around Pinocchio's cock, roughly stroking the other, giving them no moment to catch their breath. A drowning pleasure as he tongue fucks the man open as he jerks them off. To add to it, one of the heads sink their teeth into the smooth, plush skin of one of their cheeks.]
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[ The changes that had taken root in his manufactured body had miraculously imitated so many traits and attributes unique to a living being. Taste and smell, however, weren't among them. Kissing him always tastes neutral, like water from a tap. The salt on his skin comes from the environment outside of it. He always carries a note of petrol-based derivatives.
But he feels it all the same as any human. The smooth, powerful muscle of his tongue, probing so deep. The ravening hunger with which his friend devours him.
When Wriothesley has taken pleasure in pain, perhaps it shouldn't surprise him that he knows how to deliver it to anyone else. The uncut girth in his fist is greasy with the slick, inert fluid drooling from the tip, an imitation of pre from an imitation of humanity; Pinocchio's gasp stutters, overwhelmed — it's the sharp points of his teeth that topple him.
Seizing, under the stuttering gasp there's another sound, the erratic chatter of clockwork. His hand smacks into the ground, the steely other gropes backward, blindly shoving into Wriothesley's mane. He doesn't know which head he's clasping, there's no room for any thought that isn't a crescendo of sensation. With an arch of his back, the puppet comes with a shout, spilling himself onto the cave floor once, twice, and the third drools hot over Wrio's knuckles. ]
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And he'd honestly keep going. He'd keep the other on high on ecstasy with his engorged tongue if not for his own ravenous need to fill the other. Someone as strong as Pinocchio would be perfect would they not? To breed them full of cum? If he were in a better state of his mind, he knows that nothing would come of it, but the feral beast that has taken over feels like if he pumps the puppet enough cum, it would surely take.
It's with that in mind that he finally pulls his tongue out from the smaller man, licking his jaws as though he had just enjoyed a nice meal. Honestly, one can say he did though. He pulls away enough if only so Pinocchio can feel the man's large cock now rubbing between the crevice of his cheeks. It's the only second warning he gets before Wriothesley starts to press his cock passed the ring of muscle to replace that cunning tongue of his, mounting the smaller man as he presses his entire weight down on Pinocchio's back.
There won't be any reprieve for Pinocchio even after they just came. And there should be no expectation. Not when Wriothesley's hunger hadn't been at all satiated.]
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Gears grind and actuators whine — white sparks dance the length of that rust-pocked limb as he shudders and writhes, lashes fluttering over the whites of eyes rolled back, buffeted by the push and pull of ecstasy and overstimulation. Sensation rolls over him like a boulder, another crushing wave that has him tingling all the way to every extremity. His spent cock spasms, giving another hot drizzle to the ground. He doesn't have it in him to cry out, just a stuttering in his throat as he's caught, eyes squeezed shut, mouth open around the shape of a pleasure he can't see the end of.
Wrio's tongue comes away from his twitching hole and Pinocchio groans, bereft and reeling. It's visible in the way he blinks at the ground and his fists on it, dazed and panting. Clawed hands. They hold fast to his hips, Wriothesley is a band of heat following the bent line of his back, cock heavy and hot as it rides the wet seam of him. As though he's had reason slapped back into him, Pinocchio's focus returns in a more familiar shape; the whirling glance back at him has the feral fight in his blue eyes that usually only rears its head in battle.
All this time, Wriothesley has been hard and wanting... now he's taking what he wants — and he wants him. Pinocchio would never deny him anything. Not just because of his kindness, not because of his forgiveness or his help. He could have whatever he needed because this heart aches at the very thought he might want for anything at all.
With a shaky uh-huh, he tries to get his limbs under him. Without thinking about how much bigger Wriothesley is like this, he's drawn to his need like there's a compulsion to be part of his satisfaction.
Pleasure has made the puppet as unsteady on his knees as a colt. He tries to shuffle back to meet him when he's already there, weight bearing down on him, pressing him back down. The moment he remembers that he's never taken anything so big is the same moment a breathy groan spikes into something between a bark of laughter and a sob. ]
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It doesn't end there though. No, he needs to fully claim them. He wants to paint the other's insides with his seed. The want, no need, of breeding this man full so that no one else can claim him burns through his instincts.
Wriothesley starts to piston in and out, slamming his hips, the sound of their bodies meeting over and over with each thrust echoing in the cavern that they've taken refuge in. Pinocchio can do very little but to accept what the beastman is giving him, pressing them down into the earthen floor as he fucks into the smaller body. He makes sure of it too. He keeps the other down, the want to completely dominate feeding into raw instincts. To have Pinocchio completely at his mercy in this moment burns hotly in his veins.
There's a needy growl in the back of his throat.]
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When the spittle drooling from one maw drips on his skin, beginning to cool in the cavern air, he scarcely notices. There's no room for it, not with how Wriothesley crowds everything else out; the hot shape of his desire pushing into him, searing, pushing him open. His back bends, twists, arches in vain.
When he begins to fuck him in earnest, it tears a jagged cry from his throat. His brimming eyes spill and he tastes grit on his skin when he tries to smother his sobs with his knuckles. Buffeted between crashing, violent waves of pain and pleasure, he can't even think, is still processing the thunderous ecstasy and agony of the last time his cock batters into him when he's back again. A great tension builds and builds in him, his curled fingers creak, balled up into fists, his toes too, like a spring wound tightly—
How strange a heart is, when he can hurt so impressively and feel so loved. The puppet trembles violently, clenching around the fat shape of his cock, as pleasure rolls over him, grinds him down. He howls, a sound that shatters into grateful sobs.
He isn't stopping, driven on by primal hunger so powerful it's terrifying; he thrashes again, as if he has that instinct to get away, and as he keeps crashing down into juddering cheeks, the puppet's limbs go taut again, fists tight, trembling. It's almost as though he's forgotten to breathe, he's so silent — mouth hanging open and chin tipped against the ground, sticky lashes fluttering against his tear-stained cheeks. Until he groans, a sound squeezing out of his throat, beating a fist against the dirt and grasping for something to hold on to. ]
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cw: somnophilia
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