The black trails of ichor make Wriothesley take a sharp in-drawn breath as he reaches to wipe one away. It burns on his skin in a way that should probably be unpleasant but he finds quite the opposite. "Beautiful monster," he murmurs with a curling smile, seeing how soft Mezzo's gone. "That's right, that's my good boy. Let yourself be used..." He'll keep using his throat for almost too long, until he feels him start going limp, and then pull him off, letting him breathe.