the evidence is on my body
but I never complain
but I never complain
With his teeth dug in and his hands possessively making their claim, Astaroth cannot possibly imagine a better moment. The gods that spills from Danta’s perfect lips is lost on him as crimson floods his senses, metallic copper drawn enough to spill in streaks of red down the Maverick’s collarbone from his neck.
There is a very real threat there, as the butcher cares little for Danta’s wandering hands, for the pleasure that rises through him. Its pleasure that Asta chases, too, as his hips take on a brutal pace, and it’s perhaps the one thing that keeps him from fully losing it. (That and while he’s on the edge of his safe section of his bloodlust, he hasn’t spilled over completely into the monster in his skin).
Withdrawing from Danta’s neck with a too hot tongue lapping up the blood and wounds left behind, Danta’s voice brings him back enough that he can catch a glimpse — eyes nearly black, blood staining his face, hair a finger tousled mess amongst the sharp tines of his horns. Ah, but it isn’t him he’s focusing on. He serves himself a passing glance, a momentary preen of his relatively thin frame that allows for each muscle to be visible as he zeroes in on the Maverick and the flush spanning his cheeks and splotching his body. “Mm, what a vision we make, hm?” He decides, voice far rougher than it had been all night. He pays it little mind as his hips stutter along with his breath, before he’s letting go of Danta’s hips, watching with a predatory casualness as he pulls him down atop him, burying himself deep into the Maverick. His hands don’t stop moving though, not as they cross over one another to wind his hands against Danta’s neck, like his bronze, scarred hands are a collar in their own right.
It works to staunch the bleeding for the moment, but it also works for the view he seeks. “Mine.” He growls, and if he’d had the ability to partially shift, he’d absolutely be showing all of those possessive shifts within him as his tether snaps, the growl breaking into a groan.
There is a very real threat there, as the butcher cares little for Danta’s wandering hands, for the pleasure that rises through him. Its pleasure that Asta chases, too, as his hips take on a brutal pace, and it’s perhaps the one thing that keeps him from fully losing it. (That and while he’s on the edge of his safe section of his bloodlust, he hasn’t spilled over completely into the monster in his skin).
Withdrawing from Danta’s neck with a too hot tongue lapping up the blood and wounds left behind, Danta’s voice brings him back enough that he can catch a glimpse — eyes nearly black, blood staining his face, hair a finger tousled mess amongst the sharp tines of his horns. Ah, but it isn’t him he’s focusing on. He serves himself a passing glance, a momentary preen of his relatively thin frame that allows for each muscle to be visible as he zeroes in on the Maverick and the flush spanning his cheeks and splotching his body. “Mm, what a vision we make, hm?” He decides, voice far rougher than it had been all night. He pays it little mind as his hips stutter along with his breath, before he’s letting go of Danta’s hips, watching with a predatory casualness as he pulls him down atop him, burying himself deep into the Maverick. His hands don’t stop moving though, not as they cross over one another to wind his hands against Danta’s neck, like his bronze, scarred hands are a collar in their own right.
It works to staunch the bleeding for the moment, but it also works for the view he seeks. “Mine.” He growls, and if he’d had the ability to partially shift, he’d absolutely be showing all of those possessive shifts within him as his tether snaps, the growl breaking into a groan.
Astaroth
i wear it as a lesson, a curse, and a blessing
