[ His lip curls around a snarl: his. In no danger of straying or being stolen away, Wriothesley nevertheless is gripped by hands of seeming flesh and metal as if he is, by the sharps of his hips as he batters him towards ecstasy. The scent of his desire fills his nostrils; he can feel it, cooling where their wild fucking has made him drip, where the violence of his cock pistoning into him has flecked them in slick, and the sound...
Wanton, animal.
And such a sight Wriothesley makes, the bunching of muscle in furred shoulders and biceps, tapering off to fists twisted into bedsheets, the narrow waist bracketed by his hands. The strong lines of his back, arching for him, for more. It compels him to yank him by the hips to smack into his, then again, again, making sure he feels every violent thrust knock into his willing body.
He wants him to ache long after he's done being fucked, to remember who had caught and claimed him. To wring himself out into him and— what? For what purpose? The instinct is there if not the knowledge, he just wants to paint his insides with every ounce of his lust and love. Isn't that what he wants? Fill him, completely. ]
no subject
Wanton, animal.
And such a sight Wriothesley makes, the bunching of muscle in furred shoulders and biceps, tapering off to fists twisted into bedsheets, the narrow waist bracketed by his hands. The strong lines of his back, arching for him, for more. It compels him to yank him by the hips to smack into his, then again, again, making sure he feels every violent thrust knock into his willing body.
He wants him to ache long after he's done being fucked, to remember who had caught and claimed him. To wring himself out into him and— what? For what purpose? The instinct is there if not the knowledge, he just wants to paint his insides with every ounce of his lust and love. Isn't that what he wants? Fill him, completely. ]