[ Eiden's so honest, yearning and chasing after touch. His open desire so brazen in its appreciation that Pinocchio feels a shiver of pleasure, as though it's his body being caressed like this. He can't help but appreciate — with the physicality of touch, with the weight of an intense gaze — when Eiden's reactions alone are a reciprocation he craves.
He wants to drag him down with him into those blissful depths. To feel him shake and spill over, to have his throat send the raw notes of his ecstasy into Pinocchio's ears. He needs to be the one who has sent him hurtling over the crest of his pleasure.
Where he might worry he's forcing himself on the not-so-willing, Eiden dashes this misconception to pieces. HIs fingers rake into dark hair, pulling, desperate and wanting. It's as inexorable a pull as a magnet; every part of him yearns to be the vehicle of his release, the reason Eiden's spine bridges over the daybed, why his skin drips, his breath hitches.
Pinocchio's mouth paints a hot, wet stripe over his nipple, taken by the novelty of it. He bites, blunted teeth sinking into the appealing swell of muscle, tongue flirting around the skin that stands erect and dark against his skin. He has never been something weaned, he lacks the instinct, this is driven by Eiden's pleasure and that alone. Please, he says, and he's scarcely asked to be kissed before Pinocchio eagerly slots his mouth with his, grasping a fistful of one asscheek.
Stars above, the pliant warmth of his body is nothing short of a miracle. He's obsessed with it, but it's inevitable that his fingertips quest around and plumb the twitching ring of muscle from which essence has begun to weep. To breach with two digits, index and middle finger, sinking slow inch after inch, discovering in unspoken wonder how slick and wet he is.
His tongue sweeps over his, tasting his heat, his breath. Spit chains their lips when he pulls back, panting. ] Eiden... it's so wet inside you, you're so....
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He wants to drag him down with him into those blissful depths. To feel him shake and spill over, to have his throat send the raw notes of his ecstasy into Pinocchio's ears. He needs to be the one who has sent him hurtling over the crest of his pleasure.
Where he might worry he's forcing himself on the not-so-willing, Eiden dashes this misconception to pieces. HIs fingers rake into dark hair, pulling, desperate and wanting. It's as inexorable a pull as a magnet; every part of him yearns to be the vehicle of his release, the reason Eiden's spine bridges over the daybed, why his skin drips, his breath hitches.
Pinocchio's mouth paints a hot, wet stripe over his nipple, taken by the novelty of it. He bites, blunted teeth sinking into the appealing swell of muscle, tongue flirting around the skin that stands erect and dark against his skin. He has never been something weaned, he lacks the instinct, this is driven by Eiden's pleasure and that alone. Please, he says, and he's scarcely asked to be kissed before Pinocchio eagerly slots his mouth with his, grasping a fistful of one asscheek.
Stars above, the pliant warmth of his body is nothing short of a miracle. He's obsessed with it, but it's inevitable that his fingertips quest around and plumb the twitching ring of muscle from which essence has begun to weep. To breach with two digits, index and middle finger, sinking slow inch after inch, discovering in unspoken wonder how slick and wet he is.
His tongue sweeps over his, tasting his heat, his breath. Spit chains their lips when he pulls back, panting. ] Eiden... it's so wet inside you, you're so....