[ Pinocchio is lucky to know a man like Wriothesley, with a body strong enough to hold up, with a drive that can still enjoy getting fucked within an inch of unconsciousness. Sometimes, he even thinks he deserves his grace. Maybe not tonight, tonight he drinks deep the draught of sin, hoping to touch something pure. Something that doesn't belong to him.
He gives and gives, gives some more, and when it seems his pursuit of pleasure might be endless, Pinocchio gives a broken, plaintive sound, paints his insides with sticky ropes of heat. Smears and rubs it into him, the languid rolling of his hips milking the dregs of his orgasm into the man. The breath that pants over him is hot, his skin dry in contrast with the sweat that stands, glistening, on Wriothesley's fuck-flushed body.
A pressure alights on the side of Wriothesley's head; Pinocchio has rested his own against his temple, eyes closed, the comedown beginning to break his fever. ]
Stars— [ he breathes, like an epithet. Just this. The rest of his brain is just starting to tick over into something normal, still sizzling from the sweetslow crush of pleasure and relief. ]
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He gives and gives, gives some more, and when it seems his pursuit of pleasure might be endless, Pinocchio gives a broken, plaintive sound, paints his insides with sticky ropes of heat. Smears and rubs it into him, the languid rolling of his hips milking the dregs of his orgasm into the man. The breath that pants over him is hot, his skin dry in contrast with the sweat that stands, glistening, on Wriothesley's fuck-flushed body.
A pressure alights on the side of Wriothesley's head; Pinocchio has rested his own against his temple, eyes closed, the comedown beginning to break his fever. ]
Stars— [ he breathes, like an epithet. Just this. The rest of his brain is just starting to tick over into something normal, still sizzling from the sweetslow crush of pleasure and relief. ]