// smile like you mean it //
He is not any of those things – certainly not boyish nor craving of giving affection only so he might take advantage of the position it would place him. He’s, at his base, a man that has tried desperately to be valuable and left alone. It isn’t so much of a what can you do for me, as it is a I’ll scratch your back, you scratch mine. This entire encounter so far, though, is different than any of that – leaving the butcher on the backfoot, now that he actually understands what Flora wants out of it.
His biggest struggle is to try and not let go of the careful restraint he has on himself. A restraint that grows thinner and thinner as his warm hands pull her in, as she dives into the kiss with a certain determination that does give the result she’s hoping for. Like a shark that’s scented blood in the water, the second that he can taste the iron tang and the pressure of her hands against his scars, Astaroth shivers, hard, pressing into the kiss harder with a low rumble of a keening growl escaping him and pouring right into her mouth.
As she encourages the fabric to fall from his shoulders, the butcher’s hands do leave her, but momentarily. Enough that he can shrug out of the red and white floral shirt, before those hands return, one hand cupping her cheek and tangling into the blonde curls at the nape of her neck, his other hand moves to her thigh, a possessive grip that may or may not leave little fingerprint bruises with the pressure he wars with himself on. And she would be rewarded with the efforts made, with the blood and the eagerness, the sounds that leave her throat; because with the pressure he applies to her thigh, he keeps her precisely in his lap where she would be able to feel his growing arousal. He breaks the kiss with a slight pant, dark gaze somehow both sharp and hazy as his thumb strokes along her jaw, flashing a cocky and arrogant sharp smirk. “You must tell me if it becomes too much.” Astaroth pauses, his voice a deep grittier purr. “Deal?”
His biggest struggle is to try and not let go of the careful restraint he has on himself. A restraint that grows thinner and thinner as his warm hands pull her in, as she dives into the kiss with a certain determination that does give the result she’s hoping for. Like a shark that’s scented blood in the water, the second that he can taste the iron tang and the pressure of her hands against his scars, Astaroth shivers, hard, pressing into the kiss harder with a low rumble of a keening growl escaping him and pouring right into her mouth.
As she encourages the fabric to fall from his shoulders, the butcher’s hands do leave her, but momentarily. Enough that he can shrug out of the red and white floral shirt, before those hands return, one hand cupping her cheek and tangling into the blonde curls at the nape of her neck, his other hand moves to her thigh, a possessive grip that may or may not leave little fingerprint bruises with the pressure he wars with himself on. And she would be rewarded with the efforts made, with the blood and the eagerness, the sounds that leave her throat; because with the pressure he applies to her thigh, he keeps her precisely in his lap where she would be able to feel his growing arousal. He breaks the kiss with a slight pant, dark gaze somehow both sharp and hazy as his thumb strokes along her jaw, flashing a cocky and arrogant sharp smirk. “You must tell me if it becomes too much.” Astaroth pauses, his voice a deep grittier purr. “Deal?”
Astaroth
// take a chance and you could seize it //
