[ no one can mend the invisible wings he carries around on his back, feathers missing and shorn, tattered from too long a journey, unready and too weak for flight. they haven't melted against the sun, haven't worn thin from days soaring in the sky, no. people have followed behind him and plucked each one from his back too quick for him to retreat. every turn of the sun brings new, greedy hands at the wait.

but for now, with milton on the other end watching him, praising him? he can believe those wings could be mended.

and with that little dream, he slowly begins to add the second finger, humming lowly at the faint but pleasant stretch. he pumps two fingers in and out for a moment, careful and deliberate, both for his own pleasure but also for milton's. and only at the fourth slide does he add the third, pressing pressing pressing until he's buried to the hilt. ]

I belong to you. Thank you, sir.

[ another sigh and he scissors his fingers, moaning this time at the divine pressure. a little farther and he could find that sensitive little spot to be certain he'd fall apart, but he stops short. this isn't just about him, here. he doesn't want it to be. ]

It's the least I could do to let you hear me. A gift for a gift - early, for the holidays.

[ he sounds breathless, and there's already a sheen of sweat beginning to diamond his back, the stress of balancing himself up so the camera can have its view and the fire starting up under his skin doing all the work. ]

I want you to - [ a little gasp as he moves three fingers in and out, slow, to work himself open. ] - hear me.

Mister - ah, sir - I wanna add another for you.

[ four fingers, a stretch but not impossible. he feels like he needs the sharp bite of something else. ]

Don't cum without me. [ and when he turns to peer over his shoulder, there's the jaw again, and a pout of his bottom lip, intentional or otherwise. a huff, almost like a self-embarrassed laugh, then: ]

Sorry. Please let me cum with you, Milton. I want to.