hold me tight or don't

// standing, stomping in the damage and the ruins of a slip of tongue //

It moves out of his reach and there’s a hiss of frustration to meet it, more creaking of the leather that binds his hands. The horns remain on display, a menacing view as he gasps his pleasure. The shadows continue to warble and move, his spaded tail that now winds around Danta’s hips casts a shadow across his back, applying a bit of pressure as well as a matching smack on the other side of his ass for emphasis.

His hips continue to rock into the pace Danta sets, increasing the closer to that edge he gets — it’s been a while, to say the least, and the scent of blood that continues to invade his senses, smeared a violet hue against his cheek, is a siren song for the butcher. “Danta,” he half purrs half growls, trying to adjust his head between his arms, slicing this time rather than leaving the pink line against his arm. Blood bubbles to the surface, a drip starting to run down his arm that only spurs him on. “Gods, please.” He doesn’t know what he’s asking for, really, but between all of the senses heightened and the wiggling, warbling shadows, the butcher seems like he’s ready to combust.

So maybe it’s a warning, because the idea of breaking a wrist to get out of the binds to pin him down becomes more and more enticing as the seconds tick on.

Astaroth

// with tragic consequences, i think that we've all made our gravest mistakes //