[ He had scarcely left check-in, more than a little relieved that he was no longer feeling quite as cold, as stiff, as he had been lately, when the cold fingers of anxiety closed around his heart.
He's felt this creeping shadow before, the way it strangles, when he hurried toward the hotel where his friends had hidden themselves from the dangers prowling Krat's streets. They were under attack, the drum beat of dread pounding in his breast. The people important to him were in danger.
This time, no one was in danger. Nothing prowled these hallways. It took a different shape, unfamiliar, but it hollowed him out. A feeling he couldn't define, but felt its lack like an amputation. His father couldn't, wouldn't give it to him, neither could Sophia, her pain too great to give any more than she already had. Romeo saw another boy in his countenance. There was no one. No one.
Not an hour later, he has Wriothesley's muscular thighs in his hands, knees up towards his broad, scarred shoulders, each crash of hips against his on his sweat-damp seat a slap, his urgency made noise. Wriothesley looks so beautiful like this, on his back, fuck-flushed and eyes hazy, his disheveled hair sticking to the sweat beading on his brow.
Wriothesley's heels hang in the air, the man practically folded in half as the puppet batters him toward rapture. Love me, Pinocchio prays. Love me, love me.
Does he? Can he? Will he? Is it something Pinocchio has to earn? 'Love' is a word he knows but only academically. He loves and doesn't know the contours of the feeling, bereft of example. He knows that it can't be taken, just as Wriothesley's love can't be demanded of him, but he let him in when he came knocking. That means something, it has to.
He can pray. Dream. Wish that the way Wriothesley's wet mouth slackens with pleasure is meant for him and only him. Lie to himself, once more. ]
nsfw - 6♥ - wrio's quarters
He's felt this creeping shadow before, the way it strangles, when he hurried toward the hotel where his friends had hidden themselves from the dangers prowling Krat's streets. They were under attack, the drum beat of dread pounding in his breast. The people important to him were in danger.
This time, no one was in danger. Nothing prowled these hallways. It took a different shape, unfamiliar, but it hollowed him out. A feeling he couldn't define, but felt its lack like an amputation. His father couldn't, wouldn't give it to him, neither could Sophia, her pain too great to give any more than she already had. Romeo saw another boy in his countenance. There was no one. No one.
Not an hour later, he has Wriothesley's muscular thighs in his hands, knees up towards his broad, scarred shoulders, each crash of hips against his on his sweat-damp seat a slap, his urgency made noise. Wriothesley looks so beautiful like this, on his back, fuck-flushed and eyes hazy, his disheveled hair sticking to the sweat beading on his brow.
Wriothesley's heels hang in the air, the man practically folded in half as the puppet batters him toward rapture. Love me, Pinocchio prays. Love me, love me.
Does he? Can he? Will he? Is it something Pinocchio has to earn? 'Love' is a word he knows but only academically. He loves and doesn't know the contours of the feeling, bereft of example. He knows that it can't be taken, just as Wriothesley's love can't be demanded of him, but he let him in when he came knocking. That means something, it has to.
He can pray. Dream. Wish that the way Wriothesley's wet mouth slackens with pleasure is meant for him and only him. Lie to himself, once more. ]