Astaroth
// i ride the edge, my speed goes in the red //
Peering up at the Maverick with amusement crinkling his dark eyes, Astaroth’s head tilts slightly as the smirk remains. “Mmhm,” he says in a tone that seems to suggest he doesn’t believe the other man in the fucking slightest about his claims. Arms slip around his waist, though, bunching up the gilded fabric with the movement as Danta leans in to steal a kiss to the corner of his lips before the butcher tucks him in close, soaking up the warmth.
His eyes close to feel the words beginning to be mumbled against his bearded jaw, the comfortable way that Danta’s fingers thread through his dark hair and cling to his pronged horns, and in an act of retaliation for such a suggestion, the butcher’s arms tighten just a fraction harder around the other man’s lower back, pressing right into already growing sore bruises. “Do we have to?” He asks, surprisingly like a petulant child. “I didn’t get a nap earlier,” like you did, “and I have been traveling all day.” A deep accented whine is brought out in his exhaustion, as is the distinct lack of the poetics of his typically more formal speech – a tone far more akin to the edge of slang terms from Whitebrim in centuries past.
His eyes close to feel the words beginning to be mumbled against his bearded jaw, the comfortable way that Danta’s fingers thread through his dark hair and cling to his pronged horns, and in an act of retaliation for such a suggestion, the butcher’s arms tighten just a fraction harder around the other man’s lower back, pressing right into already growing sore bruises. “Do we have to?” He asks, surprisingly like a petulant child. “I didn’t get a nap earlier,” like you did, “and I have been traveling all day.” A deep accented whine is brought out in his exhaustion, as is the distinct lack of the poetics of his typically more formal speech – a tone far more akin to the edge of slang terms from Whitebrim in centuries past.
// hot blood, these veins, my pleasure is their pain //
