// with our one foot in the grave //
He would let Danta watch. He’d even let him participate, if he so wished. He’s slowly coming to the realization (like a bright fucking neon sign in his mind) that maybe Flora was right when she’d suggested he’d do anything for him. Anything.
He can’t answer verbally, or even through a mental bond like the attuned share, but what he can do is answer in the press of his lips, the stroke of his tongue, the nipping of his teeth into plush lips to spark more smaller little droplets of scarlet. He’s far more reserved than he had been in Torchline, thankfully not losing his mind, instead reverting back into an almost playful predator, calculating each space he sinks his teeth into, each place he smears the other man’s blood.
The Maverick invades his thoughts to where he doesn’t know where either of them end, only to suddenly come very much to when fire scorches and turns their clothes to ash and embers, catching the mattress and the blankets, filling the air with the burnt scent of singed hair from the furs as they catch.
It’s with an almost hiccuped sound that he pulls away from the kiss, the sound that breaks into a dark delighted laugh as he uses his own magic to put the flame out, even as the heat reverberates from the smoking mattress. “As much as I would love to fuck you in fire, I would like to not have to sleep on the floor.” It’s haughtily said, drawing up and pulling Danta closer, the ash where clothes had once been mars their skin in swaths of black. He can mourn the loss of his pants later. His hand draws little designs in the dark grey, toying and prolonging it even if his arousal is clear as day. “Unless you would concede to staying in my room after?” In which case, let it burn.
He can’t answer verbally, or even through a mental bond like the attuned share, but what he can do is answer in the press of his lips, the stroke of his tongue, the nipping of his teeth into plush lips to spark more smaller little droplets of scarlet. He’s far more reserved than he had been in Torchline, thankfully not losing his mind, instead reverting back into an almost playful predator, calculating each space he sinks his teeth into, each place he smears the other man’s blood.
The Maverick invades his thoughts to where he doesn’t know where either of them end, only to suddenly come very much to when fire scorches and turns their clothes to ash and embers, catching the mattress and the blankets, filling the air with the burnt scent of singed hair from the furs as they catch.
It’s with an almost hiccuped sound that he pulls away from the kiss, the sound that breaks into a dark delighted laugh as he uses his own magic to put the flame out, even as the heat reverberates from the smoking mattress. “As much as I would love to fuck you in fire, I would like to not have to sleep on the floor.” It’s haughtily said, drawing up and pulling Danta closer, the ash where clothes had once been mars their skin in swaths of black. He can mourn the loss of his pants later. His hand draws little designs in the dark grey, toying and prolonging it even if his arousal is clear as day. “Unless you would concede to staying in my room after?” In which case, let it burn.
Astaroth
// while the other one's kicking its way right down to hell //
