hold me tight or don't

// there's shadows on the walls //

Letting one hand brace against Asta's chest as he takes him completely, Danta's fingers splay as if to keep himself steady at the same time as he prevents the other man from going too hard or too fast; his hands might be bound, but the Maverick isn't foolish enough to think that he's going to have an easy ride. (He hopes he doesn't, in fact). Dropping his free hand - not that he needs to, as it happens - he's just rolling his hips in a too-slow rhythm when something slaps his ass, and the way he jumps has a curl of surprise and pleasure thrumming through his body enough to drag a moan from hips.

"Asta?" He pants, brows furrowed for just long enough to realise he doesn't care right now, and if the butcher wants to keep up this new brand of bullshit, he's more than entitled to. In the meantime, with a suspiciously spade shaped welt against his ass cheek, Danta picks up the pace into something less teasing and more taking. "Fuck," he hisses again, thinking nothing, apparently, of lifting his thumb to prick the pad of it with his fangs, reaching out to smear the blood in a vertical line across Asta's lips.

Dantalion

// of moments far too troubling to recall //