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Wriothesley[10♦] ([personal profile] armwriostle) wrote2024-07-22 12:13 am

♦️ [OVERFLOW FOR @THISCLOCKWORKHEART] ♦️

Moving stuff from GP to here. Holla holla.
thisclockworkheart: (pic#16963177)

[personal profile] thisclockworkheart 2024-09-25 12:20 pm (UTC)(link)
[ 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. ]
thisclockworkheart: (pic#17426863)

[personal profile] thisclockworkheart 2024-09-25 10:55 pm (UTC)(link)
[ 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. ]
thisclockworkheart: (pic#16935000)

[personal profile] thisclockworkheart 2024-09-27 04:57 pm (UTC)(link)
[ 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?
thisclockworkheart: (pic#17426862)

[personal profile] thisclockworkheart 2024-10-17 01:19 pm (UTC)(link)
[ 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.
thisclockworkheart: (pic#16963178)

[personal profile] thisclockworkheart 2024-09-25 03:05 pm (UTC)(link)
[ 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. ]
thisclockworkheart: (pic#17426860)

[personal profile] thisclockworkheart 2024-09-25 11:12 pm (UTC)(link)
[ 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?
thisclockworkheart: (pic#16995832)

[personal profile] thisclockworkheart 2024-10-17 02:09 pm (UTC)(link)
[ 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. ]
thisclockworkheart: (pic#16894884)

[personal profile] thisclockworkheart 2024-10-18 03:35 pm (UTC)(link)
[ 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. ]
thisclockworkheart: (pic#17426864)

[personal profile] thisclockworkheart 2024-10-20 08:10 pm (UTC)(link)
[ 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? ]
thisclockworkheart: (pic#17426861)

[personal profile] thisclockworkheart 2024-10-22 06:44 pm (UTC)(link)
[ 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.
thisclockworkheart: (pic#16944591)

[personal profile] thisclockworkheart 2024-10-25 04:36 pm (UTC)(link)
[ 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. ]
thisclockworkheart: (pic#16935003)

[personal profile] thisclockworkheart 2024-11-03 01:56 am (UTC)(link)
[ 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. ]
thisclockworkheart: (pic#16995832)

[personal profile] thisclockworkheart 2024-11-09 07:33 pm (UTC)(link)
[ 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. ]
thisclockworkheart: (pic#16894884)

[personal profile] thisclockworkheart 2024-11-13 12:09 am (UTC)(link)
[ 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. ]
thisclockworkheart: (pic#16934991)

[personal profile] thisclockworkheart 2024-11-14 12:28 am (UTC)(link)
[ 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. ]
thisclockworkheart: (pic#16935000)

[personal profile] thisclockworkheart 2024-11-16 03:36 am (UTC)(link)
[ 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. ]
thisclockworkheart: (pic#16935752)

[personal profile] thisclockworkheart 2024-11-16 11:53 pm (UTC)(link)
[ 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.
thisclockworkheart: (pic#16935000)

[personal profile] thisclockworkheart 2024-11-17 04:28 pm (UTC)(link)
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.
thisclockworkheart: (pic#16963174)

[personal profile] thisclockworkheart 2024-12-02 09:44 pm (UTC)(link)
[ 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. ]
thisclockworkheart: (pic#17426869)

[personal profile] thisclockworkheart 2024-09-25 06:53 pm (UTC)(link)
[ 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.
thisclockworkheart: (pic#17426870)

[personal profile] thisclockworkheart 2024-09-26 12:13 am (UTC)(link)
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. ]
thisclockworkheart: (pic#16963176)

[personal profile] thisclockworkheart 2024-10-17 02:20 pm (UTC)(link)
[ 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.
thisclockworkheart: (pic#16934996)

[personal profile] thisclockworkheart 2024-10-18 02:50 am (UTC)(link)
[ 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. ]
thisclockworkheart: (pic#17426868)

[personal profile] thisclockworkheart 2024-10-18 04:30 am (UTC)(link)
[ 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.
thisclockworkheart: (pic#16934991)

[personal profile] thisclockworkheart 2024-10-18 02:20 pm (UTC)(link)
[ 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. ]
thisclockworkheart: (pic#16894877)

[personal profile] thisclockworkheart 2024-10-23 01:02 pm (UTC)(link)
[ 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. ]
thisclockworkheart: (pic#16963177)

[personal profile] thisclockworkheart 2024-10-28 11:08 pm (UTC)(link)
[ 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. ]
thisclockworkheart: (pic#16963175)

[personal profile] thisclockworkheart 2024-11-03 12:05 am (UTC)(link)
[ 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. ]
thisclockworkheart: (pic#17426867)

[personal profile] thisclockworkheart 2024-11-16 02:02 am (UTC)(link)
[ 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. ]
thisclockworkheart: (pic#16963177)

[personal profile] thisclockworkheart 2024-11-24 03:03 am (UTC)(link)
[ 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. ]