[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.]
[ 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.]
[ 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. ]
[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.
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. ]
[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.]
[ 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.
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. ]
[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.
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armwriostle) wrote2024-07-22 12:13 am
01/09
[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.]
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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. ]
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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.]
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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. ]
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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?
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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?
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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.]
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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.
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02/21
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.
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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. ]
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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.
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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?
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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.
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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. ]
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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.]
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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. ]
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03/18
[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.
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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.
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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.]
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[ 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. ]
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[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.
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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.
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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.]
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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. ]
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06/01
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.