// with our one foot in the grave //
It is a difficult thing to awaken, if you don’t know where to start. Danta, at the very least, has made the necessary actions in order to spark it, and yet it’s still not quite there — something he’s sure Danta would be able to feel with their new positioning. It’s something Flora had noticed much the same way, a certain heat and blood rush not traveling toward his hips despite his actions, but it isn’t because he doesn’t want to.
If anything, it’s a low thrumming sensation rather than a powerful overwhelming sense, (for the moment) because Danta’s hands tangle in his hair and twist against the long curtain of black that brushes gently against the other Ancient’s pale face, kisses pressed against his warm throat, listening to what’s both being said and what isn’t.
His lips part, but none of his sharp teeth greet the Maverick’s skin, not until he offers a deeper accented “you’re mine,” because when else would the butcher make such claims if not in the comfort of being behind doors, with everything as fresh as it is — unknowingly mimicking Danta’s drunken admission to Flora.
Before giving too long of a moment to let the blonde respond, his nose brushes against the soft space above his shoulder where it connects to his neck, far away from any arteries and anything that would speak to true danger, before he’s biting down — sharp teeth lancing through skin as if it harbored zero resistance. And with it, the flood of iron and heat blurs his senses, a canine-esque growl escapes him as he withdraws and presses the apologetic touch of his tongue to the teeth shaped wounds. And with it, each and every part of the libido that had been deafened, roars to the surface.
If anything, it’s a low thrumming sensation rather than a powerful overwhelming sense, (for the moment) because Danta’s hands tangle in his hair and twist against the long curtain of black that brushes gently against the other Ancient’s pale face, kisses pressed against his warm throat, listening to what’s both being said and what isn’t.
His lips part, but none of his sharp teeth greet the Maverick’s skin, not until he offers a deeper accented “you’re mine,” because when else would the butcher make such claims if not in the comfort of being behind doors, with everything as fresh as it is — unknowingly mimicking Danta’s drunken admission to Flora.
Before giving too long of a moment to let the blonde respond, his nose brushes against the soft space above his shoulder where it connects to his neck, far away from any arteries and anything that would speak to true danger, before he’s biting down — sharp teeth lancing through skin as if it harbored zero resistance. And with it, the flood of iron and heat blurs his senses, a canine-esque growl escapes him as he withdraws and presses the apologetic touch of his tongue to the teeth shaped wounds. And with it, each and every part of the libido that had been deafened, roars to the surface.
Astaroth
// while the other one's kicking its way right down to hell //
