// standing, stomping in the damage and the ruins of a slip of tongue //
It is violent, between the blood hanging in the air, dripping from a wound the butcher doesn’t even realize he has with the force of it and the relief of the tension that had built. The pain doesn’t exist, just the tingling nature of his hands and wrists creased white with the cut off circulation of the bindings. Blood splatters along his throat, darkening his already dark beard, droplets running down in little streams along his cheeks.
Gods and what the view above him, too, bathed in moonlight, washing the scene in hues of navy blue and violet, a far away look in the Maverick’s darkened eyes that begins to shift, to come to. The butcher can’t relate, not even as he’s released and Danta’s voice reaches him. It sounds hollow, the way the whisper rings in his ears. The far away look in Asta’s own gaze is still there, and it’s that same, deep, throaty Whitebrim tone that he speaks when he answers a belated “yes.”
Is it true? Not really. Is it a lie? Also not really.
He nods to the suggestion of the water and shakes his head surprisingly quickly and succinctly at the offer of heading out as well. He doesn’t trust himself not to make any situations with Torchline and Flora worse. So for the split second he seems docile and calm, dazed in the face of his orgasm, until the bloodlust starts to creep in tenfold and the muscles work in his jaw, feathering in the moonlight before he starts to pull much harder on the bindings. The leather creaks and a tendon in his wrist pops, uncaring if he has to break the belt to get out of being restrained (in fact, he hopes for it, as the predator starts to overcome his senses surrounded by all the blood).
And all the while, there’s pressure still around Danta’s middle and his hips, his tail trying to keep him there even as he tries to work his way out of the bindings. It’s a dangerous line to ride for the blonde and it’s clear that the butcher is starting to lose the fight of patience. And rather than be docile and tame, he’s been pushed a bit too far, and the Maverick would see the warning signs like a dog about to bite.
Gods and what the view above him, too, bathed in moonlight, washing the scene in hues of navy blue and violet, a far away look in the Maverick’s darkened eyes that begins to shift, to come to. The butcher can’t relate, not even as he’s released and Danta’s voice reaches him. It sounds hollow, the way the whisper rings in his ears. The far away look in Asta’s own gaze is still there, and it’s that same, deep, throaty Whitebrim tone that he speaks when he answers a belated “yes.”
Is it true? Not really. Is it a lie? Also not really.
He nods to the suggestion of the water and shakes his head surprisingly quickly and succinctly at the offer of heading out as well. He doesn’t trust himself not to make any situations with Torchline and Flora worse. So for the split second he seems docile and calm, dazed in the face of his orgasm, until the bloodlust starts to creep in tenfold and the muscles work in his jaw, feathering in the moonlight before he starts to pull much harder on the bindings. The leather creaks and a tendon in his wrist pops, uncaring if he has to break the belt to get out of being restrained (in fact, he hopes for it, as the predator starts to overcome his senses surrounded by all the blood).
And all the while, there’s pressure still around Danta’s middle and his hips, his tail trying to keep him there even as he tries to work his way out of the bindings. It’s a dangerous line to ride for the blonde and it’s clear that the butcher is starting to lose the fight of patience. And rather than be docile and tame, he’s been pushed a bit too far, and the Maverick would see the warning signs like a dog about to bite.
Astaroth
// with tragic consequences, i think that we've all made our gravest mistakes //
