armwriostle | ♦️ [OVERFLOW FOR @THISCLOCKWORKHEART] ♦️

[Continued from here.]

[Pinocchio is so weak to mind numbing pleasure and Wriothesley laps all of it up like a starving animal. There isn't anything about it that he isn't loving. The way the other seems to lose all ability to form words, much less even think, so drunk on the pleasure running through their body.

And for a moment, he thinks the other is going to still treat him carefully and tenderly instead of using him as he has all but demanded from the other. The gentle finger that runs over his lip to the gentle carding of fingers through his hair. It's a sharp gasp that makes his throat clench ever so slightly when the other grips his hair and forces him still. It's an absolutely divine feeling when Pinocchio starts to rock their hips, forcing their length in and out of his mouth and pushing the head farther and farther down his throat. Wriothesley's eyelashes flutter as he moans around the length, enjoying the salty taste on his tongue and the bite of his hair being pulled.

Pinocchio forcing him still so that they can take his mouth as they please merely means that he can keep his hands busy. One hand digs nails into Pinocchio's thigh as though to keep himself grounded while the other hand busies itself with touching himself, rough fingers gliding over hot and sensitive skin as he watches the smaller man's face with a hazy gaze.]

Edited 2024-07-22 07:17 (UTC)

[ At risk of earning a reputation for being a selfish brute (and not precisely knowing better to begin with), he drives himself ever closer to the brink, taking his pleasure from Wriothesley's willing mouth, his yielding throat. The rumble of his gratified moan seeps in deep; Pinocchio is aware, by the pump of Wriothesley's muscular arm, what he's doing, and as the thought flits through the haze of pleasure — he's touching himself — his springs sing with an unfamiliar ecstasy.

He's unprepared for its effect on him, the idea that Wriothesley might be overcome by need, his role in it. With a shout, his cock spasms, spilling into his abused throat. The uncoordinated knock of his hips sees some of his spend splashing over his tongue when he backs his twitching cock away from his throat only to crowd in again. The sound is wet, heated flesh and the velvet of his tongue and the slick, inert spend that imitates life.

There's no word for the inarticulate sound that shudders out of him than relief, cool water thrown on the blaze of the suit that had darkened the inside of his wrist, fingers trembling around the curve of his skull and the incline of his muscled back.

It may seem brusque, when he suddenly pulls his cock from Wriothesley's dripping mouth, when he catches him under the jaw with his metal fist, yanking him up on his knees to fit his own fingers around battle-roughened grip. He's scarcely over the body blow of a recent orgasm and he wants, he needs to be part of this, the moment he can drag him over that same ledge. Their fingers slip and tangle around his needy, flushed length, greasy with the man's pre. ]

[Is it really being a selfish brute when Wriothesley is so very willing? If he didn't want this, he'd pull back and tap out, but he's too far into the hazy pleasure to think passed absolutely enjoying himself. His suit burns on his wrist, making him merely a starving animal for the cock down his throat and jerking himself off to being used so well by the other. The ache of his jaw and throat is delightful. The hand in his hair drive shim crazy. How can he not be completely lost in the moment?

Eyes roll back as he feels the hot, thick liquid of Pinocchio's spend fill his mouth, greedily swallowing as much as he can. The man looks thoroughly disheveled. Hair mussed and face flush; spend dripping down from his open mouth as he looks at the other with unfocused and glassy eyes.

The cry that rips from his throat is too heady and wanton to be read as anything but aroused as he's yanked forward. The firm, strong hand on his own as he continues to stroke himself is plenty enough. Wriothesley comes with a groan, his seed spilling over their fingers, making a mess of the floor.]

[ In time, Pinocchio can reflect on his behavior here and wonder if this is what it's supposed to be like. The clawing, gnawing hunger, the desperation for relief, the inexorable connection. Right now, a man he's just met is spilling all over their tangled fingers, slopping a mess on the floor, and all he can think is good.

He drinks in the sight of him, the way his pupils blow and his mouth slackens around his groan, the quiver under the hand bracketing his throat and the smell of his spend on his breath (not the bleachy offense one might expect of a human, a little more like ozone and machine oil).

It seems to him, perhaps erroneously, that Wriothesley might be in danger of collapsing. Maybe it's the assumption that has led him to lean him forward against his shoulder, their joined hands dripping, his cock trapped inside the cage of their tangled fingers. Realizing that he's... shaking, Pinocchio is shaking, he sinks to his knees with him, heedless of the mess left on the floor. The sticky mess cooling on his hand draws his attention, and for a moment he stares at the spend glistening on his fingers, his heart hammering away in his chest. ]

[He can feel his suit still itch under his skin, but for the moment, it's quite sated.

Wriothesley looks at Pinocchio with a lazy stare, before swallowing the rest of the other's spend and licking his lips. He doesn't linger too much on his thoughts, but he does tuck a few details away to the back of his mind. The taste, the smell, little things that he notes that aren't quite human.

Well, it doesn't matter to him.

He finally catches his breath though that he can finally piece his mind together. Damn, he really did just grab a stranger and went to town on them. There's something akin to some guilt, but his suit is still too unstable for him to spend the time talking about it. For now, he should help clean up the other.] Hey, sweetness, let's move a bit and get you cleaned up. [He reaches with his other hand to brush some hair out of Pinocchio's face.]

Can you get up or do you need another minute?

[ When he comes down from the fever that had gripped him, when the jolts of lingering sensation stop making him tremble, questions pile up in the hazy calm he finds in its wake. Wriothesley is a comforting weight against him, warm and... kind of damp, and when he moves, Pinocchio's eyes track him in initially wordless curiosity.

Are you all right? he opens his mouth to say. Wriothesley beats him there. He nods, smoothly rising to his feet (albeit with a soft, purring chatter — chk-chk-chk — coming from somewhere), possibly pulling the man up along with him, unless he offers resistance. Still taking stock of what had occurred between them, benign curiosity sharpens to distant concern when he speaks. ]

You're not hurt, are you?

[He doesn't need to be a Fontaine engineer to feel the ease in which Pinocchio lifts him back up with them. The small man was certainly strong. Just something to tuck away about the other now that his mind is just a little more clear.]

Hurt? Well, a little bit of ache isn't so bad. [His voice is a little raspy and he won't pretend he isn't feeling an ache in his jaw and throat. It's the kind of ache that he likes though.] It's nothing you have to worry about, if that's your concern. It's the kind of pain I like.

[He gently tugs the other towards the shower. They don't need a full blown shower (and he knows he wouldn't be able to endure one without wanting to jump Pinocchio's bones), but they can at least wipe down.]

[ The kind of pain he likes. He... understands that. It's a concept that lines up with his own experience, he supposes. There are kinds of pain that help him focus. That cleanse him of worries and narrow his thoughts down to the here and now. He supposes finding them useful is close enough to liking them.

Nodding with a furrowing of his brow, he permits himself to be pulled along, hand awkwardly held out as though concerned about getting them messier than they already are. He's distracted, deep in his own head as he goes through the motions of wiping clean. The shower drowns out the telltale sounds of his thinking, the tick-tick-tick of persistent clockwork.

He feels... not unpleasant, but strange, with too many questions brewing and a head still spinning from orgasm to properly process them. He's growing keenly aware that there's a stark difference between how he feels and how the other man acts, a familiarity, he thinks. If he were to begin unpacking his curiosity, would that expose the differences between them, as people? Would he question if he's a person at all? ]

I'm sorry— [ he draws back, starting to put his clothing back in some semblance of order, ] I can't linger. [ Let him risk being rude than risk exposure as someone who wasn't born human. ] I should go.

[The shower is only a temporary relief to the hedonistic thoughts that slowly want to crawl back into his thoughts. The diamond on his wrist is still a deep red and his body is reminding him that it has not been sated. Wriothesley doesn't know why. Doesn't know that his avoidance of the mingle as an experiment is truly why it hasn't been abated.

One wouldn't realize it's the growing hunger that has him still slightly flushed and not because of the activities from before.

He's a little surprised at the man's suddenness to leave, but he also doesn't fault them either. He did kind of just jump the guy's bones. Them wanting space seemed logical. He'd also want more to make sure they're on the same page if he wasn't so damn cumbrained. He tucks it away to remind himself to reach out another time to check on Pinocchio. For now, he knows a man who wants space and he shouldn't force his company on them longer.]

Oh. Please, go ahead. You don't have to apologize. Don't let me slow you down.

[Continued from here.]

You're right. Consider me distracted. How can I not pay attention to you? You're a beautiful man, Pinocchio. [And he's so very content with rocking his hips down into Pinocchio's lap. Makes a good show with it as he arches his back with a throaty groan, his own cock filling as he enjoys the way their bodies move together.

He wraps his arms around the other's neck, a coy tilt of his head.] Why wouldn't I be? I enjoy our time spent together, you know.

[He presses kisses to Pinocchio's face. They're affectionate and sweet.] I want you to enjoy yourself too. It should be good for both of us.

[ He's been called that before. Usually, the compliment passes him by without note. It's different, somehow, when Wriothesley says it. Squeezes him, like a wound spring, as warm and pleasant as sunshine.

But the play of light on muscle flexing as the man arches over him, the wet slide of skin against skin, the throaty note of Wriothesley's pleasure are answered by a soft, lower sound, desire made noise. Another hum turns into a chuckle when the man peppers freckled skin with kisses. Sweet and sexy. He likes that even more. ]

I thought it obvious, [ has a ring of mirth to it, his recent laughter still tinges his voice with warmth. This time, the deliberate rock of his hips presses the shape of his cock against him, his engorged length skidding against drenched skin. He means You're good to me but the shape of that sentiment sticks in his clockwork, so he turns his face, nudging at his with the tip of his nose until he can slot their mouths together.

His body still fascinates his fingers, metal and seeming flesh alike. They wander sensuously, without purpose, relishing the give of muscle under pressure, the texture of his skin, made soft and slick in the bath. It leads to a squeeze of a palmful of shapely buttock and a tightening of the lips against his, a smothered smile. He should probably behave before they make a mess of the bath. ]

[Wriothesley can easily get lost in the slide of their bodies together. Appreciate the sweet pleasure as they rock against each other, the movement more languid than hurried. He's used to quick and hot and moving on, but there's something nice about being able to enjoy his time and the moment with the other.

He laughs though as he feels the way the other squeezes round cheeks, the sound muffled between their lips.] I didn't realize how handsy you really were.

[Well, that's fine. They might as well enjoy themselves and make a little mess in the bath before they move on. After all, the night was young and there was a lot of preparation involved. Plenty of time to rile each other up again. Pinocchio was obviously very new to it all that some healthy exploration will go far. It's why he doesn't try and cut this short, wrapping fingers around both their cocks so he can stroke them together, the friction making him moan in delight.] Pleasure looks good on you. [He presses kisses down Pinocchio's jaw and neck.] I like seeing you enjoy yourself like this.

[ He's... handsy? Taking a moment to consider the comment and whether it's meant to indicate he should stop, the conclusion he comes to is that Wriothesley would likely object more directly if he didn't like it. ]

Mm. Blame yourself for being— [ Oh, that's, that sure is the shape of Wrio's cock, a band of heat squeezed against his inside a circle of battle-weathered fingers, Wrio's moan ringing in his ears. The last word leaks past his lips, more wheezy than flippant: ] Irresistible.

[ Distracted, that soft smile pulls again at his mouth, feeling indulgent in his unhurried exploration. Beneath the steaming water his thighs part, widening his legs to pull Wriothesley more snugly against his lap, as if that might get them closer to where he realizes he wants them, when Wrio already has that matter quite literally in hand. ] That, that precisely. [ The puppet turns his head, blinking against a curl of dark hair that had fallen close to his lashes, fixing blue eyes on Wriothesley. His distracted smile gone. ]

I want that for you. You will show me how to make you happy?

Oh. Aren't you a flatterer? [They don't get to appreciate the sounds of their cocks moving in tandem, but the sloshing of water as he strokes them at a nice speed fills in the space instead.

He leans forward, their chests pressing together and his breath ghosting over Pinocchio's with an amused glint in his eye. He rubs his thumb over the slit on the head of smaller man's cock.] Sweetness. [He sucks in a breath, enjoying that mounting pleasure build in the pit of his stomach.]

This is a dance between the both of us. I want this too. I'm enjoying it too. Your pleasure is mine own. There's nothing that would make me happier than our shared satisfaction.

[ Oh. Something there, between the pump of his fist in the water, the slick friction, the line of heat of the other man's cock, his Sweetness and the ragged sound of his drawn breath, it strikes a spark. That he runs his thumb right over such a sensitive ridge makes the puppet jolt as he drags his mouth over the sturdy column of his muscular neck. ]

Shared, [ he echoes lowly, hips surging up as though he means to rut against him, jostling the larger man in his lap. ] That's so good.

[ Taking a bath had been an indulgence, to savor the warmth and less about getting clean. But this is indulgent in a new way, and he's in danger of soiling it. The puppet isn't in the frame of mind it takes to care, and his fingers tighten on him as a whine leaks from where presses teeth against his throat, somewhere between an attempt to smother himself and taste him. ] Hhm—

[ In his fist, Pinocchio's cock twitches against his, the friction greased by his spend as he comes, his frame trembling under and against him. ]

[He'll never grow tired of bringing someone to completion. Pleasure looks gorgeous on smaller man and he happily admires them as he strokes the both of them through Pinocchio's orgasm. He relents once it seems like the other has rode through their orgasm completely.

Wriothesley takes longer to reach his climax, but who's to say it can't be fun for Pinocchio to enjoy all the same?

He shifts in the smaller man's lap, bracing his hand on their shoulder while he wraps his other hand around his own hardened length. Pinocchio has a front row seat to watching Wriothesley jerk himself off. Shameless moans and an arch of his back as he gives the other a little show while they come down from their own orgasm.]

[ He wears it well — in the shape of his mouth, the flutter of dark lashes, the heave of his chest and tremble of fingers on the man's skin — and is dazed in the aftermath. Just not to the point of inaction. Even through thoughts grown syrupy with orgasm, he recognizes what Wriothesley's doing now, the show he's giving.

Pinocchio, it seems, isn't very good at simply watching. He crowds him into the wall of the tub, steel fingers dripping where he presses them - warmed by the bath - against his ample chest, bullying Wrio's hand with the other, pressing himself close to mutter against his lips. ]

Let me.

[ It's the only explanation he'll get when he bows, head dunking into the bath with a plap that's all eagerness and zero self-consciousness. His mouth is as warm as the water, his lips soft and clumsy as he knocks a kiss into the shaft captive in his fist. They snatch at him, dragging an uncoordinated swipe of his tongue along the contours and ridges, still unfamiliar to his mouth. He engulfs him with enthusiasm, pushing him along the velvet of his tongue towards the softness at the back of his throat.

There might be room at any other time to wonder if he's going to come up for air (and why he doesn't), but perhaps now — with the puppet avidly, enthusiastically determined to give him a sloppy, underwater blowjob — isn't the time. ]

[There's a small sound in the back of his throat as he suddenly finds himself pressed against the wall by the puppet. Oh to be young and be able to bounce back immediately after an orgasm.]

Pino- [He doesn't get the man's name out before they're dipping under the water to start taking his hardened length into their mouth. A hand immediately finds wavy locks, tangling fingers into the puppet's hair with a shaky moan. The hot warmth of Pinocchio's mouth enveloping his sensitive cock has him groaning, toes curling.

He doesn't even think much about the fact that they're blowing him underwater. Maybe it's because Fontaine's water are special in that Vision holders can breath underwater or maybe because he has slowly learned that every person that enters the resort were unique in such a way that he should expect something a normal human can't do.

Either way, he's not thinking about that in favor of enjoying the moment.]

[ It's not long before Pinocchio runs up against the logistical challenges of his unplanned and hasty decision. Oh, it's fine enough, he likes how the shape of Wrio's cock fills his mouth, the feeling of it, warm and twitching against his tongue and hollowed cheeks. But he can't easily bob his head without getting in his own way, and...

More importantly, he can't hear anything but the thump of his limbs against the tub, the muffling effect of water. All at once, the puppet is pushing his shoulders in under the bends of Wriothesley's knees, fitting his hands around his waist and pushing him up, up. ]

Blhie- [ That's an attempt at sorry around a mouthful of water, when Pinocchio's head emerges from the steaming bath, Wriothesley's cock draped against one freckled cheek and his knees over his shoulders. He means to seat him on the generous side of the tub, already mouthing up the side of his cock as his metal hand grasps at the lip of the tub, then around to press flat against the base of his back. ]

I wanted to hear you. [ A long lick, and a wet, sucking kiss to the underside, chased by an earnest: ] This okay? [ What's a little manhandling between friends? ]

[There's a yelp, arms circling around Pinocchio's neck, as he suddenly finds himself being lifted out of the water and onto the edge of the bath. Look, if Pinocchio wanted to hide the fact he isn't quite human, they're doing a pretty bad job. It doesn't really mean anything to Wriothesley though given his close interactions with many whom weren't human. He's just definitely taken aback by the ease in which Pinocchio can manhandle him around.

And if that isn't incredibly hot to him. His cock twitches and there's a breathlessness in his laugh as he looks at the smaller man's face.]

You're asking that now? [His grin is bright, eyes twinkling with amusement.]

You can, ahhh, manhandle me to your hearts content, sunshine. [Wriothesley knows he is shameless. He isn't about to resist Pinocchio's earnestness as they press a wet kiss to his cock.] I can be roughened up a little bit.

[ He's absolutely fantastic at passing for human. (lie) ]

Good to know, [ he mutters between the indulgence of licking the water from each ridge and wrinkle, his mouth wrapping warm and wet around the rounded tip. Inexperience makes a clumsy giver of him yet, but the wet, eager slurp that accompanies the slick slide of his tongue as he traces into the folds of loose skin is nothing short of obscene.

What is shame to one lacking it and one unaware? Pinocchio's grip on his sturdy body is strong (if a little twitchy) and he shoots a glance up through the veil of his lashes and dripping hair before he sinks towards his root, encouraged by his sighs. Intoxicated by recent bliss, he's a little desperate to please in turn — his manufactured nature is more to blame than inexperience when the bob of his head could keep time like a metronome, a stark contrast with the very natural (and messy) way he drools over his cock, the smack of his lips when he pulls off him, spit glistening in a few thin strands in his wake. ]

I like how you feel in my mouth, [ is a heartfelt observation he makes, just before he dives back in. His eyelids shutter, a sound humming from him in a gratified sigh. Oh, but he really does love the way he fits, the heat and taste of him. ] Mmh.

[Wriothesley wears pleasure so well. He arches his back with a breathy moan, toes curling as Pinocchio takes him into their mouth. The hot, wet warmth feels wonderful on his throbbing length. Hands find wet, wavy locks, tangling into Pinocchio's hair and gently pulling as he feels the way the other goes down on him.]

Hah, fuck! [Hey, isn't it a little unfair for a novice to just be able to take his cock in its entirety like that? Not that he's complaining, cock twitching in Pinocchio's mouth. His thighs quiver, and while the sloppy inexperience is obvious, Pinocchio's enthusiasm and being so into it does wonders to how good the entire moment is.]

What shameless words...you really know how to get a guy going.

[ In Pinocchio's urgency and eagerness, he's reckless even at the best of times. It's the echo of someone else's memory that has him puffing a cough around the passion-engorged flesh filling his mouth, a phantom feeling that he should gag at odds with a body that's never had such an urge. All the signs are there that he's starting to choke, the flood of sticky spit, the tightening quiver of his throat, and he leans into the novelty instead of flinching away.

His sense of self-preservation might need a little work, but there are far more dire situations than this where caution might be warranted. For now, he feels like a kite whirling in a high breeze, dizzy on his recent release, drunk on the validation of hearing the lust and pleasure thickening Wriothesley's voice. He's done this, him. Each word, each breath and moan he pulls from Wriothesley with each wet gulp, each lash of his tongue is praise to his ears. He smothers another convulsion while he's trying to figure out just how deep he can swallow him down, eyes spilling, another reflex he isn't sure he owns.

Without the distraction of learning something for the very first time, Pinocchio has the luxury of fully appreciating this sense of power, one he isn't used to. It seems a contradiction, when Wrio's hands are in his hair, pulling and tangling with dark locks, guiding and enjoying at once. ]

Easy, sweetheart... [He appreciates Pinocchio's enthusiasm quite a bit, but he also can't help but worry about the man pushing themselves more than they need to. He shakily cards his fingers through wet locks, his shallow breathing and shivers from pleasure.]

Hollow your cheeks and relax. Take your time, you're doing well. [Gentle guidance. Lovely words of praise. He's not expecting Pinocchio to be some master expert at blowjobs on the get go. Hell, he isn't even expecting them to swallow him entirely in the first place. He coos softly, toes curling when he feels that sweet tongue rub against particularly sensitive spots on his cock.]

You feel so good.

[ He scarcely pulls off before he's trying to speak, lips sticky with threads of spit and pre, soft and warm against his swollen glans: ] Can't help it, you sound so—

[ Pinocchio doesn't flounder for the word he wants to use, something positive, surely, as much as he simply stuffs his mouth with his cock. It's a noisy, shameless slurp around his heated flesh as the inside of his cheeks rub against the sides of his cock, cheeks hollowing, curls of hair sticking to the corners of his wet mouth.

He... loves this, he loves doing this for him, drinks up the praise that drips from Wriothesley's mouth. Eager to hear and feel every sizzle of pleasure that makes toes curl and breath hitch, he chases after the places that make him shiver. His lashes sweep his cheeks, but his blue eyes are all the more striking for the way he keeps gazing up at him, soft, adoring, darker for the pupils blown wide by his desire. ]

[The sound that comes out is a mix between laughter and a moan. There's something so sweet and charming about how enthusiastic Pinocchio is. He let's his head fall back, hands tangling and gripping wavy locks in his hands as Pinocchio continues to suck him off.

Eyelashes flutter and he arches his back in a beautiful arc as he feels pleasure mount in his gut.] H-Hah! Yeah, just like that. Just like that...

[The wet, hot warmth of Pinocchio's mouth was maddening and even if it's messy and inexperienced, it was plenty wonderful. Pinocchio was so earnest. So willing. He really wants to make a mess of this man.]

[ Wriothesley's hands are strong and restless, their welcome touch makes him feel like his scalp is somehow tightening with appreciation. Their weight helps shave some of the evenness from the bobbing of his head, lends it something he lacks, something more natural. Spit and pre streaks down the flushed shaft that keeps sinking into the soft heat of his mouth, beginning to froth against his lips.

He doesn't have to look to know what Wriothesley is doing, his steel fingers are fanned out over the bend of his spine, the flex of his muscle under bath-drenched skin is a miracle, a fascination. Pinocchio hums, meaning to encourage, to confess how much he likes how freely he expresses himself, but there's not much sound to be made with his mouth full of him.

Plenty to feel, however, when his contentment and approval rumbles, sinking deep into his captive flesh. ]

[Toes curl and fingers tug at damp locks tangled between as the vibrations of Pinocchio's throat courses pleasure from his cock and through his spine. Pleasure rocks through his body, the mounting ecstasy building in the pit of his stomach with each bob of Pinocchio's head.

Sometimes reaching completion isn't something intense and mind shattering. Sometimes it is the slow and steady build up of pleasure until it can do nothing but boil over. It's sloppy. It's casual. It's nice like this.]

H-Hah. I'm almost... [It's a warning for the man who's got his cock down their throat and seems intent to swallow him as much as possible.]

[ His answer is immediate, Mm-hm! hummed onto his swollen head. He wants that, he wants the hot splash of him spilling into his mouth, wants the taste and scent that's so uniquely his to overwhelm his senses. He wants to taste him between his teeth and know his pleasure lives as a part of him. Wants him to shake and shiver because of him, because he gave him something the both of them wanted.

To know, unmistakably, that he'd been good for him.

Skill can come later, with experience. He has forever but he won't have someone like Wriothesley in his life nearly so long, so he throws himself into this fully. As his head bobs over his lap, his fist grasps and tugs on what his lips can't reach, his knuckles glistening with spit. ]

[Wriothesley comes with a pleased moan. A beautiful arch of his back lifting off the cold surface as he spills into Pinocchio's wanting mouth. Hot and salty cum fills the needy man as Wriothesley rides through his orgasm.

He pulls at hair, body twitching and lost in the high of his climax.

Eventually his body relaxes, falling back to rest against the cold surface, a pleasant contrast to his heated skin and steamy water.] H-Hah, fuck...

[ Knowing what to expect isn't the same as being ready for it. His cum splashes into his mouth and he sputters, as though possessed of some reflex a puppet shouldn't have; it means some of it drools from the broken seam of his mouth, still wrapped around him, means his shoulders buck and his mouth convulses around him, smothering a cough.

He likes it, though his eyes water and sting. Likes the way each successive pump of his fist pushes lessening beads of cum from his gently twitching cock onto his tongue. He cranes his streaming eyes up to look at him, his knuckles slowly chasing his messy mouth up, up, slowly towards his sensitive tip, until a pearly bead squelches from the corner of his mouth and dribbles over his knuckles, lips closed tight around the hot flavor coating his tongue. ]

[There's a deep exhale as he slowly comes down from his high. Wriothesley reaches out, palm gently brushing against Pinocchio's cheek before he carefully runs fingers through the smaller man's hair.

Being a people pleaser himself, Wriothesley doesn't think too much about Pinocchio's need to please or he might have been more cautious about what's to come. At the moment though, contentment burns in his veins and he gives the other an affectionate smile.]

You did good, sunshine.

[ His eyes close, his cheek nudging into his touch, a sigh gusting out of his nostrils as the man's fingers card through his hair, as those words fall from his lips. There's a flash of light along his throat as it convulses, swallowing, relishing the thick heat that slides down his throat, sticky, cloying. He's never—

The Ergo whispers. Sunshine slants through a window, flaxen hair burnished gold. A thumb traces his cheekbone. Someone whispers over the word sunshine: Carlo. There's a tight feeling in his chest, sweet and grateful. He can only turn his face to press a kiss into the cup of Wriothesley's palm as the whispers ebb away. ]

Hah, you're cute...

[Endearingly cute. Pinocchio is quite precious, he thinks. He doesn't doubt that they're more complex than a sweet, polite man with little experience to physical pleasures, but that is what is presented on the tin at the moment.

And he was here to give them more experiences.]

Mm, can you move? How about we dry up and move to the bed. I think that our little foray in the bath wasn't what you only wanted me here for, no?

[ His nose nudges at his palm when Pinocchio nods. First pushing his damp hair back with his fingers, he scoops water over his face. Dragging his palm down over the bridge of his nose, over his mouth and down his chin, water rolls off his body as he stands in the sloshing bath.

It drops next to the arc of his cock, still full and beginning to soften, not out of modesty, his fingers give himself an indulgent squeeze, blue eyes admiring the way Wriothesley wears the heat and moisture of the bath. Something moves inside his cheek. He's chasing the taste of him in his mouth while he looks. There are a few towels rolled up by the edge of the bath, and Pinocchio hands him the most dry of the two before he climbs out.

He walks without a shred of self-consciousness about his nakedness, a little at odds with his inexperience. In order not to stain the pristine towel with rust (or to have its rough edges pull at the material), Pinocchio opts to use it to towel off everywhere except for his prosthesis, draping it over his shoulder once he's done, like a white capelet. ]

Baths are nicer with company. [ He turns his head, looking back at him over his towel-covered shoulder, his visible eye crinkling with an unseen smile. ] But I didn't expect to get a meal out of one.

[Wriothesley is happy to just admire and watch the man move, not at all hiding the way he lets his eyes rove over Pinocchio's body. He does note the way that the other seems to not dry his prosthesis the same way he does with the rest of himself. Just something for him to tuck away into his memories. To remember.

He moves to get out, following after the other. He's quick to just dry himself enough before placing the towel around Pinocchio's neck and tugging them forward until their chests are pressed together.]

I rarely took baths before, but I think I can get used to them if they end up like this on a frequent basis. [He grins a little as he walks backwards, tugging the other with him.] But I'm going to be the one eating well in a moment.

Just the once, [ he recalls from earlier, a breathy laugh tumbling out of him when Wriothesley pulls him along by the towel he's slung around the puppet's neck, offering resistance for a moment, not enough to do more than perhaps make them stumble a little.

He's pointed out before that Pinocchio could be handsy. That observation appears to be more than a little astute; the puppet spreads his palms over the body turned so considerately toward him, appreciating the knotted muscle, the swell of his chest, how his skin still hangs onto the warmth of their recent bath. It's with curiosity, not trepidation, a smile crinkling his blue eyes as he crowds after Wriothesley and asks: ]

And how will you have me?

[ It's possibly a little unfair that his voice is still so clear after he attempts to batter his throat with Wriothesley's cock, earlier.

Pinocchio's still keeping one metal palm — mercifully not yet cool again — over the plane of his belly, feeling him shift and flex as he moves. The other peels the towel hanging from his shoulder and consigns it to the floor in his wake. Beads of water that had been caught in the crevices of his prosthesis crawl down in slow rivulets over his toweled-off skin, cooling in the air.

His lessons haven't wrapped yet, and the anticipation is a joy, a warbeat thudding in his chest. Each time they come together like this, Pinocchio learns something, and refines these newly-discovered delights a little more. Eager to prove himself, and even more eager to satisfy Wriothesley's generous heart, his interest is avid, keen. ]

Since I'm on your menu.

[He laughs a little, the slight push and pull they have until they get to the bed. It's a little easier said than done, Pinocchio's hands on him quite distracting he finds. Once there, he merely pushes the other gently to fall back onto the bed.]

Lay here and look pretty for a bit, won't you?

[Wriothesley only now goes through the drawers to grab what they'll actually need. A bottle of lube is tossed onto the bed, but there's one more thing he needed. There's a different array of material for bondage it seems, though Wriothesley ultimately decides against bars or rope. He picks up a bundle of long silken material in a deep red. Durable, but it felt fitting to go with something that didn't exactly have as much durability as others.

Something he felt would be good for something less intense. For his inexperienced partner. He then goes back to Pinocchio, holding out the silken restraints for the smaller man to touch and get a feel for.] Hopefully I'll have you a shaking mess by the end of this.

[ The bed was built to handle the weight of multiple occupants and some vigor besides and, fortunately, doesn't creak in an ominous way when the puppet's three-hundred-pound weight topples onto it. Pushing himself up, he backs away from the foot of the bed, tracking Wriothesley with his eyes.

There's an effortless contrapposto to the way he reclines across the bed, cocked onto one hip, propped up by his steel prosthesis, the elbow dipping into the mattress, a twist of his lithe torso, his hand resting on a smooth thigh crossing the other to rest his knee against the bed. Look pretty, Wriothesley had said, and he didn't take it literally, he just (irritatingly) winds up like this.

His attention deviates twice — once, to watch the arc of the bottle as he tosses it to the bed, and again when he draws close with the long, supple restraints. Reaching for it, he rubs it between thumb and palm before he pushes the silk restraint against his cheek, his lips. ] Using something soft like this? [ The question is more sincerely inquisitive than skeptical. This is still a lesson, and Pinocchio an avid student. ]

[Wriothesley smiles warmly as he takes in the sight of the smaller man on the bed. He might not be purposely trying to be painted like a beautiful French woman, but Wriothesley is enjoying the sight of the other plenty right now.]

You can use plenty of things for restraints. Rope, cuffs- [He takes the silken material from Pinocchio, letting it slowly slide out of Pinocchio's grasp.] -cloth such as this. I thought this might be easier on the mind than rope or something that feels more restraining. It also looks good against your skin, sweetness.

[He makes the material snap in his hands.] Hold your wrists out together for me won't you? Be good for me.

[Continued from here.]

[Wriothesley studies the other for a moment, before his mouth spreads into the softest smile. The corners of his eyes crinkle, and fondness dances in steel blue as he squeezes the other's hand affectionately.

He laughs softly. Tension leaves his shoulders a little and despite the stress, the arousal, the everything happening, the sound of his laugh is sweet and genuine.] I gotta keep you on your toes, don't I? I can't be doing anything you might expect. [It's gentle and playful in words that obscure the true honesty of his actions. He doesn't want to show Pinocchio cruelty and pain. He wants to give the other compassion. Care. Love.

He tilts his head a little to give the other a peck on the cheek and rubs their noses together. Sweet despite the hunger under his skin.]

That is what I want to hear most. You are forgiven, so I'd like to move on from it. We both need to heal from it. [Maybe Wriothesley more than Pinocchio, but it isn't like it wasn't lost on him why. The earnestness to be good for him. To serve him. In by wanting to do these things, Pinocchio had not thought of his own wellbeing for the sake of being good to him.

He is no fool. Not blind. Pinocchio has a lot of their own hurt to heal from that they probably didn't have a chance to do so before. Wriothesley wants to slowly help the other unlearn those things. To bloom properly without the shackles.] If you really feel you still need to do something for me... I'd like a nice bath together and to curl up in a nice bed after... [His lips ghost over Pinocchio's, breath warm.]

But before that, it would be nice if you fucked me into incoherency.

[ Gears grind, a low chatter. It's no bestial growl, but under the circumstances, it might as well be. Teeth snap, perilously, playfully close to the tender bow of Wriothesley's lip. The man is snatched forward on his feet and past Pinocchio nearly before the hum of actuators rises to an audible level and the puppet pursues him, seeking to fling him forward across the mattress with a purposeful shove.

He uses his metal hand. Wriothesley isn't made of glass, and there's time enough for a soft touch and soothing affection later. There's an appetite gnashing its terrible teeth and prey desperate for claiming. He won't turn away a gift given willingly (and such a gift Wriothesley is, but he'll leave such saccharine thoughts for another time).

The puppet is quick like a whip, the creak of springs telegraphs his close pursuit. The grip that closes around the back of his neck when he forces him to sprawl across the bed betrays deliberation and care — it seeks to stabilize and control his landing. That he's seizing prey by the nape scratches a hunter's itch, too. Strange that this gratification should come with this affection blooming in his breast. He appreciates Wriothesley more than he can say. There were many puppets discarded for lesser mistakes, this grace won't be wasted on him. ]

Stars above, you smell good. [ He's already on him, one clothed thigh pushing at the back of one of his knees, coaxing him to climb up onto the edge of the bed, seizing the other. The intent is clear: face down, ass up, bent over and, soon enough, exposed. ] It's been driving me crazy since I saw you.

[The sweet tone of the moment shatters almost as quickly as it comes. If he had any doubts that Pinocchio was a predator before, he certainly wasn't doubting it now. The grip on the back of his neck should usually earn gnashing teeth and a growl in return, very much not the type of person to submit so easily, but that isn't the case now. Something burns in the pit of his stomach and makes him shiver with a moan. Want courses through him like an electro charge, and he can feel his cock twitch and ache in his pants.

A low whine as he's basically forced towards the bed and something in his chest is delighted about it all. The promise of being eaten up by the other reminds him how aroused he currently was.

Wriothesley is shameless, body desperate for the promise of what's to come, climbing onto the bed without hesitation. And who is he if not to entice the other? He looks over his shoulder, ass presented to the other, tail wiggling. He sways his hips a little.] You're being driven crazy? Do you know how long I've wanted to be fucked? [Wriothesley had been horny for awhile now. He's been good and patient despite wanting to jump the other.]

What type of wolf are you leaving your prey undeterred for this long, hm?? [He's purposely trying to rile Pinocchio up more than necessary.]

A patient one.

[ 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.

[Oh. Oh.

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. ]

You always know just what to say.

[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.

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.

[Continued from here.]

Birds of a feather.

[His mouth quirks into a smile. Wriothesley is similar, though people have been prying him open ever so slowly. He hopes that Sasuke has people like that; those they can open up to if even for a little.

He glances at their hand as he feels the gentle pressure before looking back at the other.]

Archons, no! [He can't help but laugh at Pinocchio's words.] I was content at staying Rank 4. Sylvain basically carried me to my room against my will. I think if I ended up at the top rank, I might actually expire. [He won't. He might wilt away from all the attention though.]

I don't do well with the limelight, so please don't worry about my rank. I merely wanted you to have decent amenities, and I think a middle rank is comfortable enough. People might notice you, but you'd still be mostly a face in the crowd, while still getting proper attention from the staff. [It's probably why he had also settled into being a rank 7. It was still middling enough that people don't bother him too much.] But I can show you how to access correspondence for rewards on your watch if you like. You might as well use what's available to you.

♦️ [OVERFLOW FOR @THISCLOCKWORKHEART] ♦️

01/09

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02/21

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03/18

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06/01