[ Wriothesley's hands are strong and restless, their welcome touch makes him feel like his scalp is somehow tightening with appreciation. Their weight helps shave some of the evenness from the bobbing of his head, lends it something he lacks, something more natural. Spit and pre streaks down the flushed shaft that keeps sinking into the soft heat of his mouth, beginning to froth against his lips.
He doesn't have to look to know what Wriothesley is doing, his steel fingers are fanned out over the bend of his spine, the flex of his muscle under bath-drenched skin is a miracle, a fascination. Pinocchio hums, meaning to encourage, to confess how much he likes how freely he expresses himself, but there's not much sound to be made with his mouth full of him.
Plenty to feel, however, when his contentment and approval rumbles, sinking deep into his captive flesh. ]
no subject
He doesn't have to look to know what Wriothesley is doing, his steel fingers are fanned out over the bend of his spine, the flex of his muscle under bath-drenched skin is a miracle, a fascination. Pinocchio hums, meaning to encourage, to confess how much he likes how freely he expresses himself, but there's not much sound to be made with his mouth full of him.
Plenty to feel, however, when his contentment and approval rumbles, sinking deep into his captive flesh. ]