Astaroth
// i ride the edge, my speed goes in the red //
Another scoff threatens to leave the butcher’s lips – another roll of his dark eyes as if it punctuates the point, despite it doing anything but. The ribbing was fun, comfortable, normal, and that’s literally all Astaroth wants and craves in this moment. “Perfectly sound.” He supplies instead, even if the crinkle of amusement remains in his gaze, even as he nips at Danta’s fingers and lets a little laugh escape him.
No books line the shelves, but there is a discarded one on the opposite nightstand, and a small little journal with a pen as if he’s in the process of keeping tabs on things or adding down tidbits and notes about the world as they now knew it. But Astaroth doesn’t care what Danta finds or doesn’t find, nor does he care to answer as the blonde clasps his jaw and he tilts his head up for their lips to find each other again.
This one is different, a bit hungrier than the prior ones, and it allocates a moment for Astaroth’s hands to slip back down and around Danta again, palms warm and open as they smooth along his sides to his hips, curving in against his ass.
No books line the shelves, but there is a discarded one on the opposite nightstand, and a small little journal with a pen as if he’s in the process of keeping tabs on things or adding down tidbits and notes about the world as they now knew it. But Astaroth doesn’t care what Danta finds or doesn’t find, nor does he care to answer as the blonde clasps his jaw and he tilts his head up for their lips to find each other again.
This one is different, a bit hungrier than the prior ones, and it allocates a moment for Astaroth’s hands to slip back down and around Danta again, palms warm and open as they smooth along his sides to his hips, curving in against his ass.
// hot blood, these veins, my pleasure is their pain //
