ghost towns

you were automatic and as hollow as the 'O' in god

Wanting, suddenly and recklessly, to be able to run his fingers through the shadows that burst and flicker like wings from the butcher's shoulders, Danta is forced to content himself instead with the dark silk of Asta's long hair and the sharp tines of his horns. His free hand reaches up to grip at one of the tree branches, offering further leverage against the rough thrust of Asta's hips and steadying them, just a fraction, so they might continue to offer sweet nothings in the space between each breathless gasp.

Groaning something primal and needy as the other man's pace slows, even if it's no less hard and punishing for it, Danta's lips part in a silent cry of pleasure to feel Asta's fingers squeeze around his aching cock. It's not enough - not nearly enough - and yet that in itself already has fire crackling at the base of his spine, lighting a fuse that's sure to detonate sooner or later.

"I love it when you fuck me like this," he whispers, just about able to persuade the words to drag out from his throat. He loves the butcher's hands all over him, taking him, possessing him in a way he'd want desperately to escape if it was anyone else. But with Asta it feels right - it feels good, even, and if this is how things ever had to end for Danta, he'd consider it a worthy death and then some.

Dantalion