[ angels are beautiful, he thinks, a single clear thought in a mind muddled by how good this feels, how warm eichi is, the slickness of his hand and how wet his tentacle's getting. he wants to keep playing with his chest, this odd softness, but he wants eichi closer, more, more, more... the tentacle behind him presses him flush against wataru, the tentacles in him suddenly wiggling deeper, wataru's strokes much harder, much quicker, teeth on the juncture of his neck.
no, in it, sinking into the meat, oddly sharp. this, it seems, like his tentacles, is base instinct. it isn't just there; every thrust is accompanied by a new bite, tearing the skin of his shoulder, his collarbone, his chemise. eichi can probably guess what happens to most of wataru's playmates, if they don't get snapped attempting to run. ]
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no, in it, sinking into the meat, oddly sharp. this, it seems, like his tentacles, is base instinct. it isn't just there; every thrust is accompanied by a new bite, tearing the skin of his shoulder, his collarbone, his chemise. eichi can probably guess what happens to most of wataru's playmates, if they don't get snapped attempting to run. ]