[Tea was just something he ended up finding enjoyment with once he could afford to find something to enjoy that wasn't the thrill and challenge of a fight. With all the varied nuances and the culture steeped into tea for each nation, Wriothesley is fond of the liquid for more than just for the taste.]
Black tea can mean so many things. The differences in tea is really based on when the leaves are picked and used. There's so many nuances that you might have enjoyed one type of black tea but will find another one to offer something different in flavor profile. [Look, he is fascinated by the process even if he barely understands it all. He doesn't have much of a green thumb and wouldn't be able to nurture one with how he's underwater with very little natural light. It would be useless to try and raise plants.
Wriothesley is animatic as he speaks.] Yes. I enjoy it for all the spices they prepare it with. Chai is just another word for tea. I'm sure that they probably use a tea bag of some kind or something more simple, but preparing it in a more authentic way is very pleasing. If you ever are feeling curious enough, I'm sure that it would be easy to procure the ingredients and to make some ourselves. Did you want to try this blend while we're here? I'm sure I can recommend a good white or oolong tea for you to try if you would prefer trying a non black tea.
[Wriothesley obviously did not have picky taste buds. He couldn't growing up. While he has his preferences, he very much was fond of most things he has tried. It was also more of the experience than the end result sometimes.]
[ Until now, tea was just a thing his father-- his creator liked to take in his room at the Hotel. Well, liked was perhaps not the right word for it. It seemed cups would go cold on his desk as he brooded more often than not. He would sometimes rumble his thanks, distracted, when it was brought to him, but he never saw the twinkle of gratitude and pleasure in his pale blue eyes.
Nothing like the enthusiasm Wriothesley displays. He learns much from the time that follows about a subject he had no interest in, but finds himself enjoying nonetheless. He has a wealth of knowledge on the topic, and, charmed by his enthusiasm, Pinocchio finds himself listening avidly. In the end, he chooses the chai, in the hopes that he might have something to compare whenever they meet to make it in this mysterious, more authentic way.
It feels exciting, to have plans with someone that doesn't have a dire reason attached. It feels... like something normal people do. He feels light, buoyed by the novel pleasantness of it all, the elation of having made (dare he say it) a friend.
But when the tea is gone and staff seem to hover, seeking to clear the way for another set of customers, he realizes he isn't ready for this to end. ]
...Will I be holding you from something, [ hazards the puppet politely, ] If I asked for more of your company? [ He reaches over, resting his hand over the man's wrist, meeting his eyes with unabashed sincerity, ] I'm not ready to say good-bye.
[Wriothesley happily talks about the particulars of tea. It's obvious that it's just something that the man has become quite fond of and had gathered quite a bit of knowledge through the years. What is mostly apparent was how much the boxer simply enjoys the drink.
He can tell that the staff are looking to get more customers in and his rank isn't high enough to take more time than necessary, nor was he interested in overstaying his welcome. It's better than being kicked out rudely, so he happily pays and has his chips deducted before he feels the gentle hand on his wrist.
His gaze warms as he smiles, the corner of his eyes crinkling with mirth.] Oh, how can I refuse you when you ask so sweetly. You've got me smitten. [Wriothesley gets to his feet, but he offers his arm for Pinocchio to take.] I've got nothing pressing to do today, so let's keep enjoying out time together shall we?
[ He recognizes his answer is flattery. Between the bassy beats of his mechanical heart, Pinocchio heeds the whispered warning and tries to let it wash over him without thinking too much of it. Easier thought than done. Everyone wants to feel... special, don't they? And he does.
Perhaps this selfish desire to hold onto it is human, too.
Wriothesley is awfully good with people. He could stand to learn a thing or two. Geppetto taught him good manners, but just barely. Enough to pass as human, never enough to live as one. He supposes that he could call this gentlemanly.
Rather than take him on the offer of his arm, Pinocchio fits his hand around the back of his wrist and pulls him along out of the cafe. ]
There's something I want to show you.
[ Something turns out to be multiple things, starting with the conservatory. He's fascinated by things that might seem quite ordinary — the variety of plants growing there, the butterflies, the artificial sky. And when they take their rest and Pinocchio leans back on the grass, gazing up at a ceiling so blue he feels like he might drop through it, their conversation meanders to the very cause of this meeting in the first place.
He does it with about the same subtlety and grace as he deals with locked doors. ]
[Wriothesley happily lets himself be lead around by the other. If he was disinterested, it doesn't show at all. He happily talks about things like different varieties of fauna that lives back in Teyvat to even the stars in the sky that he's more familiar with. The man speaks as though he is well learned, despite how young he is. Despite how little education he actually had in reality.
It's when Pinocchio asks him a personal question with the tact of that of a mitachurl rampaging with their axe that he can't help but bark out a bright laugh, eyes crinkled and expression completely jovial.]
I think that you might need to learn to ask your questions with a bit more tact in the future. Well, it doesn't matter to me, but I think some company might not feel quite enthused to be asked about where they learned to give head. [It so happens that Wriothesley is pretty laidback.]
Hmm, where did I learn to do that? Well, you could say I slept around quite a bit when I was younger and you just pick up skills with experience. [He doesn't get into the particulars. How he did quite a bit for the sake of credit coupons and survival. That he had slept around for currency and that the people whom he had gone to bed was a decent number. Those things were better left unsaid than to reveal to a man who was still mostly a stranger.]
Not to embarrass you, but you're quite inexperienced with sex, right? How much have you been able to experience before?
[ The man already has Pinocchio's penetrating attention even before Wriothesley's bark of laughter but it prompts him to roll over, bits of grass clinging to the back of his shirt. Head tipped to stare, lying on his belly and propped up on his elbows, metal fingers laced loosely with their pale counterparts, he listens intently.
There's nary a blush when he bobs his head, nodding. There's a crease in his brow as he considers the word sleep in this context. When people sleep, the act is far less... active than all that had been. Then he recalls hearing this turn of phrase before. 'Sleep around'. The subject had been the Game. He puts the two together.
Good lesson in Resort-relevant slang, that. ]
Nothing like that. [ Even if Pinocchio hopes that isn't odd enough to out his unnatural origins, it's with an open mind and a lack of learned shame that he continues with another question: ] Would you let me try it?
[ With a small frown, his eyes droop to the grass under his arms. Perhaps he wonders if his request seems too much like he's using him to remedy the inexperience Wrio has rightfully identified in him, perhaps he feels compelled to justify why. ]
It doesn't sit right, that I didn't share with you that feeling. That I didn't know how.
This place is certainly strange. For it wanting to have people lay with each other, I feel like I've met a few people who do not strike me as eager participants. [There's a few people that don't seem like they're into a life of debauchery.
He grins though.] I don't think there's any man who'd refuse getting a blowjob, but...
[He shifts to lean over the smaller man with a grin.] Is that all you want to do right now? If you haven't done a lot, there's a lot of other things I can help you experience. There's a lot one can do together that isn't a handjob or a blowjob.
[Wriothesley rests his hand on Pinocchio's thigh. It's innocent enough, but there certainly was some intent behind his actions.] I won't say no, but since we're here, why don't we do something new together? [He tilts his head a little. Wriothesley's expression was a little coy.]
Well— [ Pinocchio hedges and isn't merely a conversational affectation. He's weighing how much he should say, angling his eyes towards his hands. Watching the negative space between them and the other man's legs. ] It never came up, I suppose.
[ That much is true.
Wriothesley moves and the puppet tracks him with his eyes, lifting his chin as his head tilts. It affords him a better view without craning his neck, lying here on his belly in the grass, though the position ends up looking a little like he's mirroring Wriothesley. It's the tumble of his wavy hair and how it curtains one eye, mainly.
He feels the warmth of his broad palm seep through the material of his pants, the weight of it on his thigh. How it mixes with the shadow Wriothesley casts as he leans over him, the inviting nature of his grin makes him jolt, but not out of feeling skittish. He's simply unused to it. ]
I'm plenty adventurous, [ he says, just a little defensively, feeling he has something to prove. Moving to get up off the grass, his prosthesis whirrs and clunks, while the other hand covers over his on his thigh as he sits up. The welcome is implicit. He welcomes the contact.
Heeding the whispering of the power that wends through his manufactured limbs, that gives him life and sentience, he lets slip more of that boyish mischief that burdened his maker so. His steel fingers close around the front of his shirt, pulling him an inch nearer, tilting his own chin up towards him, ] And poor at controlling my curiosity.
[ He's been described as an unstoppable fellow, after all. ] Can you keep up, I wonder.
[Wriothesley chuckles as he playfully squeezes the thigh under his fingertips. The way the smaller man bristles just a bit and the defensiveness in their tone fills him with a certain mirth. Stubborn and bratty. It's cute on Pinocchio.
And who is he if not one to go along with what's happening. He closes the distance to press lips to Pinocchio's. It isn't chaste, but it isn't shameless either. Merely a press of lips that go just deep enough that there is a whisper of a promise for more. If that was what Pinocchio wanted. He breaks it after a few seconds, a lipsided grin on his face.] Oh? You didn't take me as someone who could be quite a brat.
[He tilts his head as he leans down, lips brushing against the smooth skin of Pinocchio's neck.] Well, do you want to stay here or would you rather somewhere more private? [He says that even as he gently untucks the puppet's shirt from his pants so that he can slide calloused fingers under it to run over the smooth expanse of Pinocchio's stomach.]
Those are tall words, you know. Don't underestimate me too much, sunshine.
[ The kiss doesn't quite mollify him. Discovering but recently that he really, really likes kissing, the brief stamp of his kindles in the puppet a craving for another. It's betrayed by the sway he makes — forward, lips parted — when Wrio draws back. Quite a brat stays him from making good on the threat, but also leaves an opening that Wriothesley is quick to exploit.
His hair tickles, and the sensation of his soft mouth on the sensitive skin of the puppet's neck makes him feel like his springs have been tightened up on him. The puppet's breath catches strangely. ]
Um— [ Pinocchio isn't one to fill the air with hesitant sounds, it's more that he's distracted from making a decision for... quite a few reasons, actually, and only one of them is related to the way his shirt slides against his skin and his pants ride up because Wrio's rucked it up out of their waistband. Tempted to let himself fall into the alluring exploration, his fist loosens, smoothing the creases it left behind on his shirt as he maps out the contours of his chest, the arch of his ribs, the knotted muscle over his belly through the fine material. ]
Not here. [ It's too exposed. If something were to happen, he might not be able to react quickly enough to protect him (or himself). He doesn't want to be constantly looking over his shoulder. Hooking fingers into his waistband, he pulls at him, swaying on his knees as he puts on a coy smile, ] I'd rather give my teacher my undivided attention.
[ Heading him off before he can ask him where he lives (heavens, he can't take him to the basement), he adds: ] Where is your room?
[He laughs something airy and soft as he has to abandon feeling the smaller man up so that they can move to their feet. Like dumb teenagers giggling as they mess around and trying to find somewhere more private while ripping clothes off each other, Wriothesley is feeling a certain giddiness. It's fun and light and there's something sweet about how earnest Pinocchio is despite his inexperience.
He entwines their fingers together and tugs Pinocchio close.] Let's go to Mating Seasons. My room isn't very big. [Wriothesley was only a Rank 4. A far cry from a Rank 2, but still rather pitiful. Mating Seasons will give them a proper room and whatever they might need. It'll make for a better experience for someone who's so new to it all.]
I'd like to have proper space for you. The last thing I want is some of your few experiences to be bad. [And he refuses to have them have a bad time with him.] Come on.
[ He likes Wriothesley's laugh. The way he threads his fingers into the gaps between his (and doesn't shy from the metal), the way he draws him in. So ready is Pinocchio's bobbing nod that it might give the impression he was about to agree to anything. For someone who so often tries to look put together, the puppet is in no hurry to address his untucked shirt, though it only serves to highlight intent when they head for the desk.
Hopefully, Wrio wasn't planning on getting that hand back along the way, he's content to clasp it in his metal digits for the entire journey. It helps, incidentally, to keep most of the fitful twitching of his elbow and wrist to a minimum, but the benefits of having his hand to hold number a few more than these. ]
We're here for a room, [ he announces, striding boldly up to the desk. Asked if he has a preference, his brow creases helplessly. ] ...
The kind you "make love" in. [ As opposed to... sleeping? Working?? ]
Already smitten with me? You really do love to flatter. I'm charmed. [Wriothesley walks with a confident stride, but there's playfulness in his steps. He swings their arms as they walk, a pleased smile gracing his lips.
There's really only one reason to go to Mating Seasons and it's for sex. The slight disheveled appearance of the puppet and the fact that the two of them are standing together at front desk wanting for a room really makes it obvious (it already was obvious).
It's Pinocchio's words that earn a snort from the taller man. He has to stifle his chuckles. Really? Pinocchio was going to word it this way? He guesses there was some wining and dining just before, but still... He can't help but be charmed though. There was something so cute about this man, truly.
They're given a room and Wriothesley merely tugs the other with him. Now he really feels like silly teenagers messing around.] Making love are we~?
[ The sound of amusement tips him off that he's spoken out of turn — a snort from Wriothesley at his side and a titter from the staff member — and he decides he'll refer to it as playing the Game from now on. One mistake in many, and it's not one he's going to agonize over, putting on a slight curve to his mouth, a polite smile.
His Ergo whispers a warning: Don't be too easy. He doesn't understand, though he is. The puppet's history with humans has been bloody, biased, and full of betrayal, meaning even the slightest kindness can win him over. While he has set the bar low, Wriothesley is, genuinely, one of the nicest people he's ever met. Charmed, he says, when he's already charmed the puppet plenty.
Staff can tell a beginner when they see one, the rest of the process goes rather smoothly. Wriothesley pulls him along, an Pinocchio moves around him, seeking to start backing the bigger man backwards through the open doorway, hooking a pair of fingers in his shirt collar, steel digits cold on his skin. ]
Not to your taste? [ he quips in feigned innocence, leaning up to snatch a brief kiss from his mouth. ]
Making out?
[ There's a playful gleam to his eyes when he knocks the door shut behind them with his heel, pulling himself up against Wriothesley's body, metal joints pinching his collar and the other arm wrapping behind his head. Like he plans on giving a few other terms a spin if he wants to make a game of this. ] Fraternizing?
[Wriothesley goes with the flow just like running water. He doesn't resist nor does he seem to try and put up a fight, merely letting Pinocchio push him backwards. Willing and pliant, the boxer seemed more than happy to let Pinocchio play as he pleased. And really, it would be for the best for Pinocchio to explore these kind of moments. That they can find that sex can be fun in a multitude of ways.
He leans forward, letting his lips ghost over Pinocchio's, breath warm.]
I wouldn't recommend falling in love with a bad boy is all. [His words are cheeky as is his grin. His hands find Pinocchio's shirt and starts to undo the buttons, taking his time and not seemingly in a rush to undress the other.]
Oh, I do think I enjoy fraternizing. It sounds like I'm doing something bad on company time. Risque, but oh so addicting. [He lets calloused fingers glide over smooth skin.] I don't need to put any terms to it though. I do just want to enjoy the moment.
[ To be undressed in this context feels a little bit doting. Makes him feel warm and fluttery, and something is appealing about the brush of another man's clothing against his skin as Wriothesley begins to bare it, something erotic.
Falling in love are just words to a puppet whose affection for his creator was never genuine, was never meant for him, but the boy he was built to resemble. The way he's heard of it — the way songs sing of it, stories tell it — it sounds like one of life's most beautiful, most memorable experiences. And a source of unimaginable pain.
Hanging on the thread of negligible space between Wriothesley's lips and his, Pinocchio wonders what kind of place he's from that would deem a man so kind and good-natured bad. But then again, people make enemies of anyone. Usually for being different, or having something they want. These thoughts are too heavy for the moment, so he leans into this game of words, little escalations.
With a sideways tilt to his head, the smile on his mouth seems to flirt with the idea of snatching another kiss from Wriothesley's lips. His own fingers have threaded into his thick hair, so eager to touch, but disrobing requires he drop his arm. Pinocchio relents, briefly, but as soon as he's shrugged out of his shirt he's tugging him eagerly by his belt.
Wrio's hands and the rough patches of callouses make his breath hitch, how unused he is to the attention have made clumsy things of his hands, fumbling with the buckle of Wrio's belt. He gets it loose but that's all — he fists his shirt, pulling its hem from his waistband, impatient to slide his own hands up inside to touch bare skin.
His metal hand is still cool. He knows it, there's a mischievous twinkle in his eye as he puffs a silent laugh against his mouth. ] And are you? [ Enjoying the moment. ]
[Wriothesley doesn't tear any of Pinocchio's clothes but merely sliding the garment off slim shoulders and letting it drop to the floor. The movement is sweet and careful, almost treating the man delicately, though they both know Pinocchio is not fragile in the least. Instead, it merely shows a gentle care for the smaller man.
The boxer is almost the opposite. Skin roughed and uneven from scars that linger, entire stories telling their tales on a canvas. He arches into Pinocchio's touch, not at all shy to chase after pleasurable skinship.
He laughs softly before pressing a chaste kiss to Pinocchio's lips.] Mm, not this time. I happen to keep my entire day open for you, so let's enjoy every moment of it. [He presses his lips to Pinocchio's again. This time, it's more heated, meant to be more than something quick. His fingers slide down Pinocchio's sides before reaching the waistband of pants, fingers starting to undo the smaller man's belt.]
Not that I would claim doing you as bad. You are quite fetching, after all.
[ It's a dangerous thing, to make Pinocchio feel special like this — reserving for him the whole day, treating him like something precious — an attachment is inevitable.
Where Wriothesley is gentle and tempered by experience, Pinocchio is still naive, clumsy, direct; although possessed of a gentle heart, he's a little forceful sometimes, as though still learning that not everything has to be a battle. The creases crumpled into his shirt is evidence of that, as is the greedy wandering of hands up inside Wriothesley's clothes, blindly mapping out his knotted abdomen, the generous swell of pectoral muscle. The shift from smooth skin to rippling scar tissue doesn't deter him, he traces these too when his fingers encounter them.
That initial, chaste kiss isn't enough; Pinocchio tips his chin towards him, like he intends on chasing his mouth for another. His words give him pause, and he's already starting to nod when he welcomes Wriothesley's lips and hands by the way he arches into both. There's every sign that he relishes this — just the congress of their lips — from the way he sighs against his cheek through his nose to the droop of his lashes, eyes closed, feeling. ]
You're joking. Have you seen yourself? [ Unnecessarily illustrating his point (that is, his massive rack), his fingers dig into his pecs in a squeeze, puffing out his cheeks in a momentary pout: ] It's unfair, is what it is.
[ Having an incredible body like this, the nerve.
It's more pragmatism than an attempt at being seductive, when Pinocchio, reluctant to get his hands off the prize, leans in to tug a button free of a hole with lips, tongue, and teeth. Each time his breath puffs, hot and humid, in a path downward from his collarbone, plucking one button free at a time. Clumsy work, and eventually he does have to drag his hands out from inside his shirt to assist, if only so he can kiss skin recently bared to him. ]
[He laughs a little, the sound a little breathless as Pinocchio continues to feel him up.] You really know how to charm a guy, you know. Anyone would be charmed with such earnest words, you know.
[He means it too. Pinocchio offers an earnestness that simply comes from an honest romantic. It's sweet and lovely. Refreshing.
He grabs Pinocchio's chin and gently lifts it up, eyes crinkled at the corners, as he gazes at the other.] Come on, let's move to the bed? Promise we'll get to explore plenty, sunshine. Just a bit of scenery change and getting comfortable. [He can tell how hurried the other is. Not because they want this to be quick, but it feels more akin to someone who was impatient to experience more.]
All of this, you can touch to your heart's content, so there's no rush. [A gentle tug towards the bed, steady steps as he moves backwards, luring the other forward with him.]
[ He's struck a little speechless by his comment (and is feeling a kind of way about his chin being tipped like that, off-balance and a little fluttery), so he's a moment catching up, trailing after him as they move further into the room.
Pinocchio feels like he's been shut in some lightless, lonely place and is feeling the sun and breeze on his face for the first time. He wants more, and Wriothesley indulges him, his measured guidance keeps him from being too hasty.
If it looks a little like he's prowling after him, it's just the habitual stride of a puppet whose life up until now has been as a weapon. ]
You say that, [ he counters, his fingers momentarily pushing and tugging at the buckled straps securing the worn leather cuff that protects the transition from shoulder to Legion Arm. Just enough to pull the hand-sewn hem of his altered sleeve free of it, to get his shirt off the rest of the way. ] But you're the guiltiest one here with your silver tongue.
[ The sight of the bed, queerly, makes his heartbeat leap into his throat. It's a bed, like any other, he remembers inspecting one he found in an empty apartment, in Krat, pushing on the cushioned mattress, stretching out across it on his back. He ended up regretting that, when a frenzied puppet burst in through the door and attacked.
He's never consciously slept, as far as he knows. Not in one, like humans do. But sharing one with Wriothesley seems... exciting, a little forbidden. What would it be like to lie by his side? To feel him, warm and within reach, to listen to his breath?
Funny that it's that and not all the other sordid things one could get up to together that has him all flustered. He's trying to hide it, when he clutches for Wriothesley's hands, bringing them to his mouth, brushing his lips over knuckles, pushing his body up close against his, and then, tipping his head up, seeks out another kiss. ] Is there something I can do to make you more comfortable?
[ Said while he's pulling on his arms, pulling them down towards his knees, leaning into him, to coax him to sit on the foot of the bed. To get even closer when he does, one slender leg between Wriothesley's knees, the other hemming in one thigh. Halfway to straddling him, head tipped down and his soft hair curling into Wriothesley's face. ]
Hah. Guilty am I? Are you going to arrest me for my supposed crimes? [His tone is light. Amused in the way that the other seems taken by him.
He's amused by how the man seems to be so out of place as though they rarely knew what to do with a bed. It doesn't deter any enthusiasm, but it's striking to see someone so wet behind the ears. It doesn't seem for a lack of interest though.
Wriothesley smiles, an arm slinking around Pinocchio's neck to pull him into a kiss. He falls back onto the bed, taking Pinocchio with him, limbs uncoordinated with each other until he can tangle his legs with the smaller man. He breaks the kiss to start trailing them down his chin and to his neck.] I'm plenty comfortable, sweetness. Let me show you a good time.
[So eager to please, but Wriothesley was the one who wanted to make sure Pinocchio was comfortable. That he can open the doors to experiences they never had before and to enjoy every moment of that. He wanted to please the other in the moment.
Hands start to travel south, gliding over smooth skin until reaching the waistband and belt of Pinocchio's pants.] We won't need these for what comes next.
[ He's no Watchman, and he might have countered with that but Wriothesley pulls him down and Pinocchio lets him, catching himself on his metal arm just enough to prevent his full weight from landing on him. There's a huff of soft laughter, airy and sweet, a breathless sound that's anything but chaste when the other man's mouth descends his throat. He arches against him, his hand pushing up into Wriothesley's dark hair, fingers carding through it, and then down to grip him by the back of his neck.
He tips his chin down, lowering himself onto a steel elbow with a breathy chuckle, using that grip on him to try to turn his head to angle up towards him, his legs loosely tangled with his. ] I am having a good time.
[ Oh, but he does make a good point. He huffs, ducks to press a kiss under one of his eyes, and pushes himself back up onto his knees, swinging one leg over the edge of the bed. As he addresses the belt and buttons, ] Can you wait on yours? [ His gaze drops, briefly, not shy but a little enthralled by how forbidden it feels to assert a personal, selfish desire. ]
I want to take it off for you.
[ His belt lands on the foot of the bed, the whisper of fabric battling to be audible over the metallic crunch and clatter of his prosthesis. ] Let me?
[He begrudgingly lets the other free from his grasp, watching the other start to rid themselves of more of their clothes with a pleased stare. He doesn't hide the way his eyes rove over the man, appreciating the lithe, yet strong figure the smaller man cuts.
His smile widens and he merely rolls onto his back, sprawling himself across the surface. There's a coy tilt of his head.]
Oh? How gentlemanly of you to ask. [He runs fingers over his chest, obviously suggestive in the way he lays on the bed.] Alright then. Be my guest, sweetness.
[ As comfortable in his own synthetic skin as he is fully dressed, there's no hint of self-consciousness. He might well fight a battle to the death without a stitch on, it's just... rather impractical. It's with this sort of quiet, settled confidence with which he looks back at Wriothesley, laid out on the bed, his hands roaming over the generous muscle of his chest.
He's beautiful, and Pinocchio, sliding a knee onto the foot of the bed, grasps him by the ankle and calf. ] Thank you, [ passes automatically from his lips, more earnest than polite. This isn't the clinical act of efficiently stripping a man of his clothing. His contact is firm, taking care; his hand squeezes around the arch of one foot when he strips off its sock, his palm drags up his calf, mapping out his muscular thigh. ]
I like how you feel under my hands, [ he muses, lifting his eyes to peer at him through his lashes when his hands push over the groin of his pants. One palms him through his clothes, thumb tracing the underside of the arc of his cock, while the other loosens his pants. ] It's distracting.
[ There's a smile lurking in the corner of his mouth that suggests he doesn't mind, and then his hands slide up over his belly, only to scoop behind him, to the small of his back, and then push down into the seat of his pants, pushing them down over his hips. His eyes drop and so does his smile, replaced by fascination, by hunger.
Of course he remembers how Wriothesley had made him unravel with just his mouth. He's curious, can he do the same? How would Wriothesley sound, how would he taste? His teeth sink into his lower lip, biting back the question, and resumes pulling his pants down his thighs. ]
[It's almost unnerving to be stripped down like this. He's so unused to it. The way the other seems to want to map out his everything like he's someone to be cherished. So used to the hot and hurried moments of merely getting off and then continuing through the day is all he really ever grown accustomed to, that he's almost a little out of his element when Pinocchio seems intent to treat him so sweetly.
It's sweet though, really. His lips quirk into a playful smile.] Isn't that the point? I want you to be distracted by me.
[As Pinocchio rids the man of his clothes, more and more of Wriothesley is bared to him. The man certainly had worked hard on his physique, a necessary need to be at tip top shape to take on any opponents that want to exchange blows. A built body riddled with scars, a canvas with countless stories hidden in each nick and burn.
Wriothesley doesn't shy away from it either, letting the smaller man see every inch of him revealed.] You look like you want to eat me whole, sweetness.
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[Tea was just something he ended up finding enjoyment with once he could afford to find something to enjoy that wasn't the thrill and challenge of a fight. With all the varied nuances and the culture steeped into tea for each nation, Wriothesley is fond of the liquid for more than just for the taste.]
Black tea can mean so many things. The differences in tea is really based on when the leaves are picked and used. There's so many nuances that you might have enjoyed one type of black tea but will find another one to offer something different in flavor profile. [Look, he is fascinated by the process even if he barely understands it all. He doesn't have much of a green thumb and wouldn't be able to nurture one with how he's underwater with very little natural light. It would be useless to try and raise plants.
Wriothesley is animatic as he speaks.] Yes. I enjoy it for all the spices they prepare it with. Chai is just another word for tea. I'm sure that they probably use a tea bag of some kind or something more simple, but preparing it in a more authentic way is very pleasing. If you ever are feeling curious enough, I'm sure that it would be easy to procure the ingredients and to make some ourselves. Did you want to try this blend while we're here? I'm sure I can recommend a good white or oolong tea for you to try if you would prefer trying a non black tea.
[Wriothesley obviously did not have picky taste buds. He couldn't growing up. While he has his preferences, he very much was fond of most things he has tried. It was also more of the experience than the end result sometimes.]
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Nothing like the enthusiasm Wriothesley displays. He learns much from the time that follows about a subject he had no interest in, but finds himself enjoying nonetheless. He has a wealth of knowledge on the topic, and, charmed by his enthusiasm, Pinocchio finds himself listening avidly. In the end, he chooses the chai, in the hopes that he might have something to compare whenever they meet to make it in this mysterious, more authentic way.
It feels exciting, to have plans with someone that doesn't have a dire reason attached. It feels... like something normal people do. He feels light, buoyed by the novel pleasantness of it all, the elation of having made (dare he say it) a friend.
But when the tea is gone and staff seem to hover, seeking to clear the way for another set of customers, he realizes he isn't ready for this to end. ]
...Will I be holding you from something, [ hazards the puppet politely, ] If I asked for more of your company? [ He reaches over, resting his hand over the man's wrist, meeting his eyes with unabashed sincerity, ] I'm not ready to say good-bye.
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He can tell that the staff are looking to get more customers in and his rank isn't high enough to take more time than necessary, nor was he interested in overstaying his welcome. It's better than being kicked out rudely, so he happily pays and has his chips deducted before he feels the gentle hand on his wrist.
His gaze warms as he smiles, the corner of his eyes crinkling with mirth.] Oh, how can I refuse you when you ask so sweetly. You've got me smitten. [Wriothesley gets to his feet, but he offers his arm for Pinocchio to take.] I've got nothing pressing to do today, so let's keep enjoying out time together shall we?
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Perhaps this selfish desire to hold onto it is human, too.
Wriothesley is awfully good with people. He could stand to learn a thing or two. Geppetto taught him good manners, but just barely. Enough to pass as human, never enough to live as one. He supposes that he could call this gentlemanly.
Rather than take him on the offer of his arm, Pinocchio fits his hand around the back of his wrist and pulls him along out of the cafe. ]
There's something I want to show you.
[ Something turns out to be multiple things, starting with the conservatory. He's fascinated by things that might seem quite ordinary — the variety of plants growing there, the butterflies, the artificial sky. And when they take their rest and Pinocchio leans back on the grass, gazing up at a ceiling so blue he feels like he might drop through it, their conversation meanders to the very cause of this meeting in the first place.
He does it with about the same subtlety and grace as he deals with locked doors. ]
Where did you learn to do that with your mouth?
[ Suave and demure. Very mindful. ]
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It's when Pinocchio asks him a personal question with the tact of that of a mitachurl rampaging with their axe that he can't help but bark out a bright laugh, eyes crinkled and expression completely jovial.]
I think that you might need to learn to ask your questions with a bit more tact in the future. Well, it doesn't matter to me, but I think some company might not feel quite enthused to be asked about where they learned to give head. [It so happens that Wriothesley is pretty laidback.]
Hmm, where did I learn to do that? Well, you could say I slept around quite a bit when I was younger and you just pick up skills with experience. [He doesn't get into the particulars. How he did quite a bit for the sake of credit coupons and survival. That he had slept around for currency and that the people whom he had gone to bed was a decent number. Those things were better left unsaid than to reveal to a man who was still mostly a stranger.]
Not to embarrass you, but you're quite inexperienced with sex, right? How much have you been able to experience before?
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There's nary a blush when he bobs his head, nodding. There's a crease in his brow as he considers the word sleep in this context. When people sleep, the act is far less... active than all that had been. Then he recalls hearing this turn of phrase before. 'Sleep around'. The subject had been the Game. He puts the two together.
Good lesson in Resort-relevant slang, that. ]
Nothing like that. [ Even if Pinocchio hopes that isn't odd enough to out his unnatural origins, it's with an open mind and a lack of learned shame that he continues with another question: ] Would you let me try it?
[ With a small frown, his eyes droop to the grass under his arms. Perhaps he wonders if his request seems too much like he's using him to remedy the inexperience Wrio has rightfully identified in him, perhaps he feels compelled to justify why. ]
It doesn't sit right, that I didn't share with you that feeling. That I didn't know how.
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He grins though.] I don't think there's any man who'd refuse getting a blowjob, but...
[He shifts to lean over the smaller man with a grin.] Is that all you want to do right now? If you haven't done a lot, there's a lot of other things I can help you experience. There's a lot one can do together that isn't a handjob or a blowjob.
[Wriothesley rests his hand on Pinocchio's thigh. It's innocent enough, but there certainly was some intent behind his actions.] I won't say no, but since we're here, why don't we do something new together? [He tilts his head a little. Wriothesley's expression was a little coy.]
Or are you not feeling adventurous?
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[ That much is true.
Wriothesley moves and the puppet tracks him with his eyes, lifting his chin as his head tilts. It affords him a better view without craning his neck, lying here on his belly in the grass, though the position ends up looking a little like he's mirroring Wriothesley. It's the tumble of his wavy hair and how it curtains one eye, mainly.
He feels the warmth of his broad palm seep through the material of his pants, the weight of it on his thigh. How it mixes with the shadow Wriothesley casts as he leans over him, the inviting nature of his grin makes him jolt, but not out of feeling skittish. He's simply unused to it. ]
I'm plenty adventurous, [ he says, just a little defensively, feeling he has something to prove. Moving to get up off the grass, his prosthesis whirrs and clunks, while the other hand covers over his on his thigh as he sits up. The welcome is implicit. He welcomes the contact.
Heeding the whispering of the power that wends through his manufactured limbs, that gives him life and sentience, he lets slip more of that boyish mischief that burdened his maker so. His steel fingers close around the front of his shirt, pulling him an inch nearer, tilting his own chin up towards him, ] And poor at controlling my curiosity.
[ He's been described as an unstoppable fellow, after all. ] Can you keep up, I wonder.
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And who is he if not one to go along with what's happening. He closes the distance to press lips to Pinocchio's. It isn't chaste, but it isn't shameless either. Merely a press of lips that go just deep enough that there is a whisper of a promise for more. If that was what Pinocchio wanted. He breaks it after a few seconds, a lipsided grin on his face.] Oh? You didn't take me as someone who could be quite a brat.
[He tilts his head as he leans down, lips brushing against the smooth skin of Pinocchio's neck.] Well, do you want to stay here or would you rather somewhere more private? [He says that even as he gently untucks the puppet's shirt from his pants so that he can slide calloused fingers under it to run over the smooth expanse of Pinocchio's stomach.]
Those are tall words, you know. Don't underestimate me too much, sunshine.
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His hair tickles, and the sensation of his soft mouth on the sensitive skin of the puppet's neck makes him feel like his springs have been tightened up on him. The puppet's breath catches strangely. ]
Um— [ Pinocchio isn't one to fill the air with hesitant sounds, it's more that he's distracted from making a decision for... quite a few reasons, actually, and only one of them is related to the way his shirt slides against his skin and his pants ride up because Wrio's rucked it up out of their waistband. Tempted to let himself fall into the alluring exploration, his fist loosens, smoothing the creases it left behind on his shirt as he maps out the contours of his chest, the arch of his ribs, the knotted muscle over his belly through the fine material. ]
Not here. [ It's too exposed. If something were to happen, he might not be able to react quickly enough to protect him (or himself). He doesn't want to be constantly looking over his shoulder. Hooking fingers into his waistband, he pulls at him, swaying on his knees as he puts on a coy smile, ] I'd rather give my teacher my undivided attention.
[ Heading him off before he can ask him where he lives (heavens, he can't take him to the basement), he adds: ] Where is your room?
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He entwines their fingers together and tugs Pinocchio close.] Let's go to Mating Seasons. My room isn't very big. [Wriothesley was only a Rank 4. A far cry from a Rank 2, but still rather pitiful. Mating Seasons will give them a proper room and whatever they might need. It'll make for a better experience for someone who's so new to it all.]
I'd like to have proper space for you. The last thing I want is some of your few experiences to be bad. [And he refuses to have them have a bad time with him.] Come on.
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[ He likes Wriothesley's laugh. The way he threads his fingers into the gaps between his (and doesn't shy from the metal), the way he draws him in. So ready is Pinocchio's bobbing nod that it might give the impression he was about to agree to anything. For someone who so often tries to look put together, the puppet is in no hurry to address his untucked shirt, though it only serves to highlight intent when they head for the desk.
Hopefully, Wrio wasn't planning on getting that hand back along the way, he's content to clasp it in his metal digits for the entire journey. It helps, incidentally, to keep most of the fitful twitching of his elbow and wrist to a minimum, but the benefits of having his hand to hold number a few more than these. ]
We're here for a room, [ he announces, striding boldly up to the desk. Asked if he has a preference, his brow creases helplessly. ] ...
The kind you "make love" in. [ As opposed to... sleeping? Working?? ]
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There's really only one reason to go to Mating Seasons and it's for sex. The slight disheveled appearance of the puppet and the fact that the two of them are standing together at front desk wanting for a room really makes it obvious (it already was obvious).
It's Pinocchio's words that earn a snort from the taller man. He has to stifle his chuckles. Really? Pinocchio was going to word it this way? He guesses there was some wining and dining just before, but still... He can't help but be charmed though. There was something so cute about this man, truly.
They're given a room and Wriothesley merely tugs the other with him. Now he really feels like silly teenagers messing around.] Making love are we~?
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His Ergo whispers a warning: Don't be too easy. He doesn't understand, though he is. The puppet's history with humans has been bloody, biased, and full of betrayal, meaning even the slightest kindness can win him over. While he has set the bar low, Wriothesley is, genuinely, one of the nicest people he's ever met. Charmed, he says, when he's already charmed the puppet plenty.
Staff can tell a beginner when they see one, the rest of the process goes rather smoothly. Wriothesley pulls him along, an Pinocchio moves around him, seeking to start backing the bigger man backwards through the open doorway, hooking a pair of fingers in his shirt collar, steel digits cold on his skin. ]
Not to your taste? [ he quips in feigned innocence, leaning up to snatch a brief kiss from his mouth. ]
Making out?
[ There's a playful gleam to his eyes when he knocks the door shut behind them with his heel, pulling himself up against Wriothesley's body, metal joints pinching his collar and the other arm wrapping behind his head. Like he plans on giving a few other terms a spin if he wants to make a game of this. ] Fraternizing?
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He leans forward, letting his lips ghost over Pinocchio's, breath warm.]
I wouldn't recommend falling in love with a bad boy is all. [His words are cheeky as is his grin. His hands find Pinocchio's shirt and starts to undo the buttons, taking his time and not seemingly in a rush to undress the other.]
Oh, I do think I enjoy fraternizing. It sounds like I'm doing something bad on company time. Risque, but oh so addicting. [He lets calloused fingers glide over smooth skin.] I don't need to put any terms to it though. I do just want to enjoy the moment.
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Falling in love are just words to a puppet whose affection for his creator was never genuine, was never meant for him, but the boy he was built to resemble. The way he's heard of it — the way songs sing of it, stories tell it — it sounds like one of life's most beautiful, most memorable experiences. And a source of unimaginable pain.
Hanging on the thread of negligible space between Wriothesley's lips and his, Pinocchio wonders what kind of place he's from that would deem a man so kind and good-natured bad. But then again, people make enemies of anyone. Usually for being different, or having something they want. These thoughts are too heavy for the moment, so he leans into this game of words, little escalations.
With a sideways tilt to his head, the smile on his mouth seems to flirt with the idea of snatching another kiss from Wriothesley's lips. His own fingers have threaded into his thick hair, so eager to touch, but disrobing requires he drop his arm. Pinocchio relents, briefly, but as soon as he's shrugged out of his shirt he's tugging him eagerly by his belt.
Wrio's hands and the rough patches of callouses make his breath hitch, how unused he is to the attention have made clumsy things of his hands, fumbling with the buckle of Wrio's belt. He gets it loose but that's all — he fists his shirt, pulling its hem from his waistband, impatient to slide his own hands up inside to touch bare skin.
His metal hand is still cool. He knows it, there's a mischievous twinkle in his eye as he puffs a silent laugh against his mouth. ] And are you? [ Enjoying the moment. ]
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The boxer is almost the opposite. Skin roughed and uneven from scars that linger, entire stories telling their tales on a canvas. He arches into Pinocchio's touch, not at all shy to chase after pleasurable skinship.
He laughs softly before pressing a chaste kiss to Pinocchio's lips.] Mm, not this time. I happen to keep my entire day open for you, so let's enjoy every moment of it. [He presses his lips to Pinocchio's again. This time, it's more heated, meant to be more than something quick. His fingers slide down Pinocchio's sides before reaching the waistband of pants, fingers starting to undo the smaller man's belt.]
Not that I would claim doing you as bad. You are quite fetching, after all.
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Where Wriothesley is gentle and tempered by experience, Pinocchio is still naive, clumsy, direct; although possessed of a gentle heart, he's a little forceful sometimes, as though still learning that not everything has to be a battle. The creases crumpled into his shirt is evidence of that, as is the greedy wandering of hands up inside Wriothesley's clothes, blindly mapping out his knotted abdomen, the generous swell of pectoral muscle. The shift from smooth skin to rippling scar tissue doesn't deter him, he traces these too when his fingers encounter them.
That initial, chaste kiss isn't enough; Pinocchio tips his chin towards him, like he intends on chasing his mouth for another. His words give him pause, and he's already starting to nod when he welcomes Wriothesley's lips and hands by the way he arches into both. There's every sign that he relishes this — just the congress of their lips — from the way he sighs against his cheek through his nose to the droop of his lashes, eyes closed, feeling. ]
You're joking. Have you seen yourself? [ Unnecessarily illustrating his point (that is, his massive rack), his fingers dig into his pecs in a squeeze, puffing out his cheeks in a momentary pout: ] It's unfair, is what it is.
[ Having an incredible body like this, the nerve.
It's more pragmatism than an attempt at being seductive, when Pinocchio, reluctant to get his hands off the prize, leans in to tug a button free of a hole with lips, tongue, and teeth. Each time his breath puffs, hot and humid, in a path downward from his collarbone, plucking one button free at a time. Clumsy work, and eventually he does have to drag his hands out from inside his shirt to assist, if only so he can kiss skin recently bared to him. ]
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[He means it too. Pinocchio offers an earnestness that simply comes from an honest romantic. It's sweet and lovely. Refreshing.
He grabs Pinocchio's chin and gently lifts it up, eyes crinkled at the corners, as he gazes at the other.] Come on, let's move to the bed? Promise we'll get to explore plenty, sunshine. Just a bit of scenery change and getting comfortable. [He can tell how hurried the other is. Not because they want this to be quick, but it feels more akin to someone who was impatient to experience more.]
All of this, you can touch to your heart's content, so there's no rush. [A gentle tug towards the bed, steady steps as he moves backwards, luring the other forward with him.]
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Pinocchio feels like he's been shut in some lightless, lonely place and is feeling the sun and breeze on his face for the first time. He wants more, and Wriothesley indulges him, his measured guidance keeps him from being too hasty.
If it looks a little like he's prowling after him, it's just the habitual stride of a puppet whose life up until now has been as a weapon. ]
You say that, [ he counters, his fingers momentarily pushing and tugging at the buckled straps securing the worn leather cuff that protects the transition from shoulder to Legion Arm. Just enough to pull the hand-sewn hem of his altered sleeve free of it, to get his shirt off the rest of the way. ] But you're the guiltiest one here with your silver tongue.
[ The sight of the bed, queerly, makes his heartbeat leap into his throat. It's a bed, like any other, he remembers inspecting one he found in an empty apartment, in Krat, pushing on the cushioned mattress, stretching out across it on his back. He ended up regretting that, when a frenzied puppet burst in through the door and attacked.
He's never consciously slept, as far as he knows. Not in one, like humans do. But sharing one with Wriothesley seems... exciting, a little forbidden. What would it be like to lie by his side? To feel him, warm and within reach, to listen to his breath?
Funny that it's that and not all the other sordid things one could get up to together that has him all flustered. He's trying to hide it, when he clutches for Wriothesley's hands, bringing them to his mouth, brushing his lips over knuckles, pushing his body up close against his, and then, tipping his head up, seeks out another kiss. ] Is there something I can do to make you more comfortable?
[ Said while he's pulling on his arms, pulling them down towards his knees, leaning into him, to coax him to sit on the foot of the bed. To get even closer when he does, one slender leg between Wriothesley's knees, the other hemming in one thigh. Halfway to straddling him, head tipped down and his soft hair curling into Wriothesley's face. ]
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He's amused by how the man seems to be so out of place as though they rarely knew what to do with a bed. It doesn't deter any enthusiasm, but it's striking to see someone so wet behind the ears. It doesn't seem for a lack of interest though.
Wriothesley smiles, an arm slinking around Pinocchio's neck to pull him into a kiss. He falls back onto the bed, taking Pinocchio with him, limbs uncoordinated with each other until he can tangle his legs with the smaller man. He breaks the kiss to start trailing them down his chin and to his neck.] I'm plenty comfortable, sweetness. Let me show you a good time.
[So eager to please, but Wriothesley was the one who wanted to make sure Pinocchio was comfortable. That he can open the doors to experiences they never had before and to enjoy every moment of that. He wanted to please the other in the moment.
Hands start to travel south, gliding over smooth skin until reaching the waistband and belt of Pinocchio's pants.] We won't need these for what comes next.
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He tips his chin down, lowering himself onto a steel elbow with a breathy chuckle, using that grip on him to try to turn his head to angle up towards him, his legs loosely tangled with his. ] I am having a good time.
[ Oh, but he does make a good point. He huffs, ducks to press a kiss under one of his eyes, and pushes himself back up onto his knees, swinging one leg over the edge of the bed. As he addresses the belt and buttons, ] Can you wait on yours? [ His gaze drops, briefly, not shy but a little enthralled by how forbidden it feels to assert a personal, selfish desire. ]
I want to take it off for you.
[ His belt lands on the foot of the bed, the whisper of fabric battling to be audible over the metallic crunch and clatter of his prosthesis. ] Let me?
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His smile widens and he merely rolls onto his back, sprawling himself across the surface. There's a coy tilt of his head.]
Oh? How gentlemanly of you to ask. [He runs fingers over his chest, obviously suggestive in the way he lays on the bed.] Alright then. Be my guest, sweetness.
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He's beautiful, and Pinocchio, sliding a knee onto the foot of the bed, grasps him by the ankle and calf. ] Thank you, [ passes automatically from his lips, more earnest than polite. This isn't the clinical act of efficiently stripping a man of his clothing. His contact is firm, taking care; his hand squeezes around the arch of one foot when he strips off its sock, his palm drags up his calf, mapping out his muscular thigh. ]
I like how you feel under my hands, [ he muses, lifting his eyes to peer at him through his lashes when his hands push over the groin of his pants. One palms him through his clothes, thumb tracing the underside of the arc of his cock, while the other loosens his pants. ] It's distracting.
[ There's a smile lurking in the corner of his mouth that suggests he doesn't mind, and then his hands slide up over his belly, only to scoop behind him, to the small of his back, and then push down into the seat of his pants, pushing them down over his hips. His eyes drop and so does his smile, replaced by fascination, by hunger.
Of course he remembers how Wriothesley had made him unravel with just his mouth. He's curious, can he do the same? How would Wriothesley sound, how would he taste? His teeth sink into his lower lip, biting back the question, and resumes pulling his pants down his thighs. ]
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It's sweet though, really. His lips quirk into a playful smile.] Isn't that the point? I want you to be distracted by me.
[As Pinocchio rids the man of his clothes, more and more of Wriothesley is bared to him. The man certainly had worked hard on his physique, a necessary need to be at tip top shape to take on any opponents that want to exchange blows. A built body riddled with scars, a canvas with countless stories hidden in each nick and burn.
Wriothesley doesn't shy away from it either, letting the smaller man see every inch of him revealed.] You look like you want to eat me whole, sweetness.