// make me bleed if you need to confirm that it's something i can do //
Its a line, taught and heavy, one that will snap with a fury of a whip crack to match the whip version of his cane — sharp and biting. It’s one the butcher tries desperately to balance on between the feel of Danta beneath him, the feel of him press and thrust into Flora, the wild challenge in Flora’s eyes that urge him to show her.
He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t.
But gods if it wouldn’t be so perfect.
It’s when Danta’s orgasm racks through him and the incessant rock of his hips that the sensation within the butcher charges tenfold. But Danta is smart, and as he runs his hand back into his hair, staying him forcefully, the butcher’s hiss is more animal than it is human. “Dantalion—” And Flora will see the sharp snap of his teeth in the air above his lover’s shoulder, the tension wrought through scarred skin and tense shoulders.
His hips twitch and lose their rhythm, at least for long enough that he shakes his head, knocking the flat space of his horns against the Maverick that he takes the moment to slice the inside of his cheek with numerous fangs, flooding his mouth with iron to grant him his own release, spilling hot and warm from his lips with the choked and loud moan that passes from his lips, unable to make out any kind of name.
He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t.
But gods if it wouldn’t be so perfect.
It’s when Danta’s orgasm racks through him and the incessant rock of his hips that the sensation within the butcher charges tenfold. But Danta is smart, and as he runs his hand back into his hair, staying him forcefully, the butcher’s hiss is more animal than it is human. “Dantalion—” And Flora will see the sharp snap of his teeth in the air above his lover’s shoulder, the tension wrought through scarred skin and tense shoulders.
His hips twitch and lose their rhythm, at least for long enough that he shakes his head, knocking the flat space of his horns against the Maverick that he takes the moment to slice the inside of his cheek with numerous fangs, flooding his mouth with iron to grant him his own release, spilling hot and warm from his lips with the choked and loud moan that passes from his lips, unable to make out any kind of name.
Astaroth
// and i'll paint it red //
