armwriostle | ♦ [INBOX] ♦

[Skin loudly slaps with every thrust, Wriothesley feeling pleasure burn white hot everytime Pinocchio slams back in. The man's impressive length feels like he's being split open, the abuse against his prostate making him sob. He doesn't know if its out of delight or because of how overwhelmed it feels to be bullied like this.

Pinocchio is an absolute beast on a normal day and a complete monster when spurred like this. He never stood a chance, but he still tries. He wants the man to reach complete satisfaction, even if he thinks his body might give out before that happens.

Eyes rolling back, body clenching and unclenching, and he writhes and squirms like he isn't sure if he wants more or if he's trying to pull away. The latter is useless. He's pinned against the bed, forced to accept every bit of pleasure.] H-Hah. Come on, Pinocchio. Fill me up like you want me to.

[He encourages it even as his body feels too hot, too good, too much.]

[ 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. ]

[Wriothesley merely shudders, his body aching and exhausted, limp under Pinocchio as the smaller man releases their load into his wanting hole. Warm and filling, he lets out a quiet groan, eyelashes fluttering, as he feels Pinocchio pump him full of their release.

Sweat plasters bangs to his forehead, gaze completely unfocused as his body twitches from oversensitivity. Pinocchio had not been merciful that's for sure (nor would he had wanted them to).

He raises a shaky hand to try and cup Pinocchio's face.] Hey...you get what you need out of your system or should I steel myself for another round? [He doesn't know if he can go straight into another round and survive, but he'll try if that's what Pinocchio needs.]

[ Had he been asked a minute earlier, he might have seethed a passionate word or two into his ear, resolved to fuck him senseless, until he was well and truly his. Right now, he's catching breath he doesn't even need, watching the other side of his madness with new eyes and a pounding heart. At first, his touch searches him, hands smoothing over his calves, his knees, his thighs.

Not altogether there, but close; he keeps peppering his temples, his brow, his hair with wordless kiss after kiss as his hands map out his body, like he's checking he's all there. ]

I'm fine, [ he says at length, sighing as he finally pulls his dripping cock from Wriothesley's well-used hole. What follows after is a warm palm, draped gently across it. The purpose isn't clear. Whether it's there to warm or protect him, or just to feel him twitch against his fingers, he at least isn't trying to enter him again. ] Are you—

[ Hurt? Mmh, that's not useful, because they have hurts they like, and then hurts they don't. Blue eyes, clearer now, search his face, steel fingers shaking when they seek to comb locks, sticky with sweat, back from Wriothesley's fuck-flushed face. He's so beautiful that it makes his golden chambers ache, and he can rely on few things more than he can rely on Wriothesley's resilience, but still. He worries. ] —all right? Nothing broken?

[Sir, do you enjoy his hole that much? Like knowing that he's filled with your spend are you?

That's a dumb question actually.]

Sunshine, you will know if something is broken. I will not be having the time of my life. [Though, he can reason that even if he tried to tap out, Pinocchio might not be in a good enough mind to stop. Well, is that what they would call an occupational hazard? Wriothesley chuckles a little.] I don't think you won't be getting me out of this bed for a little bit though if that's what you're asking. I think anymore and you'd might actually throw out my back. Have I ever mentioned that your brimming youth is terrifying to be at the receiving end of when it comes to sex?

[His tone is light, even if his words are somewhat weary. He definitely is not complaining about the sex. Honestly, Pinocchio could throw out his back and he'd thank him.]

[ He especially likes knowing he's made a mess of the man, and that Wriothesley has always demonstrated with keenness and honesty how much he enjoys being made a mess of is a not-insignificant factor. The fingers draped gently over his hole push a little into him, as though he means to press some of the spend drooling from him back inside.

Paired with the way he noses at Wriothesley's sweat-slicked hairline, gentling him affectionately, perhaps it comes across as more sweet than sexy. Eventually, he can feel the puff of his breath as he laughs through his nose, quietly. ]

But you take me so well, [ he plays along, crooning at him with a smile, a little guilty in spite of it, ] It's only fair that I put you back together. [ His mouth pushes against his cheek, ] Rest, [ cucciolone, he bites back affectionately, ] I'll be but a moment.

[ Though he might just be stuffing those fingers into his mouth when he strides to his bathroom. Sweet and filthy. There's glass to fill, then hot water to run, and a small towel to soak with it with a little soap. He catches his reflection as the sink steams. He doesn't look any different than he usually does, but he feels different. Wrio's face lurches into his mind's eye, fuck-flushed and weary, and he gives himself a shake, thumping his brow with the heel of his palm.

Heavens above, the sex is fun and it's always great to spend time with him, but showing up unannounced and trouncing the man like an animal... it's not even during a Game, what has got into him, when even looking at Wriothesley feels like a great big fist is crushing his heart sweetly?

Once he's sure he isn't in a state where he'll jump him if he returns to his bed, he wrings out the towel and brings both it and the glass of water with him. ]

Yeah, yeah. I take cock like a champ. I know. [His grin is wide. Challenging if anything.] Someone has to be able to handle that sizable dick of yours.

[Wriothesley shifts to get comfortable while he waits for Pinocchio to come back. He doesn't know the way the other laps up the spend from their fingers nor does he know how the man has to get their wits about them so they don't end up jumping his bones in a few moments. He's blissfully ignorant to the man's plight, merely sprawled onto the sheets and tangled with the sheets.

Pinocchio really is going to be fighting for their life, given Wriothesley's tendencies to tease and play and happily rile others up.

He watches the other return before he talks again.] Did the resort do something or were you that raring to go? I won't say no to a bootycall, but you usually seemed to like to wine and dine with me before you make me your main course. [He really is not going to make this easy. Unknowingly.]

[ Wriothesley's playfulness is one of many charm points.

He's also observant, recognizes patterns, and makes logical conclusions. It doesn't surprise Pinocchio that he asks, considering some of their previous encounters, but a small amount of chagrin accompanies the soft puff of laughter that answers him. He pushes a knee onto the mattress beside him, nudging Wriothesley before he sits at his side, ] I still might.

[ Pinocchio pushes the glass of water into his hands, but once he takes it, he combs his fingers through his sweat-damp hair, affectionately, and then cuffs him gently on the cheek, a laugh in his voice, ] You look good enough to eat, especially like this. ...Drink.

[ His eyes rake his body, fingers gripping the damp cloth, debating whether he can get away with licking the spend off his belly, or if that's just flirting with disaster. With his knee hiked up against the mattress, his ankle rests on the other knee. Though the position doesn't make it extremely obvious, the lurid red of a heart is stamped on his heel. ]

Wine and dine me? Or eat me up? [A sane man would know to not rile a man who could bring him within an inch of his life. In a battle and in bed. It just so happens that Wriothesley is not a sane man because riling up the other was just too much fun.

He does take the cup and drinks, the coolness soothing against his parched and aching throat. He leans into Pinocchio's touch a little, like a dog happy to get pets.]

I will tell you now that anymore and I won't be able to get out of bed, so if you're going to throw my back out with your excitement, I'd like to know now. [He places the half finished glass onto the bedside table.] Mostly, I have something for you, but I'm gauging if I'll have the energy to do anything about it, sunshine.

[ There may come a time when that might bite Wriothesley in a way he doesn't like, but fortunately for them both, Pinocchio isn't far enough out of his mind that he can't resist the dark impulse that wants to make him his so thoroughly there's nothing left for anyone else.

He turns his eyes away from Wriothesley with a tight smile, as though mollified by his acquiescence — and amused by his cheek. Both are true. ]

Perhaps another time, then.

[ Now, does he mean throwing Wriothesley's back out, or does he mean 'doing anything about' whatever Wriothesley has for him? Both? Pinocchio takes the glass from him once drained, setting it aside. The cloth is still warm in his hand, lightly fragrant with soap, and he smoothes a corner of it over his brow, pushing the damp hair back, a steel knuckle gently tipping his chin up as he wipes down from temple to jawline. ]

Though... I wish to ask if you have any tools I might borrow for a day or two. If it's any trouble, then pray forget I asked.

[The boxer is completely pliant to Pinocchio's touch. He lets them carefully wipe his skin down with the dampened cloth, their free hand carefully tilting his body every which way they need to move them. There's a gentle sigh as it soothes his aching body.

There's a slight tilt of his head, a curious expression on his face.]

You are free to use them. I don't mind. [He moves to sit up finally, a low groan as he feels the ache of his muscles complain.] What do you need them for though? That is, if you don't mind me asking.

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