there's an angel on your story and a demon in your bed
feels a bit surreal, feeling bad, don't feel it yet
feels a bit surreal, feeling bad, don't feel it yet
He could absolutely try to pull the strings of chaos that leak out of the butcher’s usually stoic exterior, but whether or not he succeeds is something only Dygra knows. He doesn’t have his usual patience, his usual cadence of being able to restrain himself and his own indulgences (which should spark some worry about what else the butcher could get into if given free reign). But for now, at least, his distraction is overwhelmingly exactly what he wants.
And that’s just the two of them in the warmth of their den, his possessiveness blooming like an invisible cage that’s stifling despite its invisibility. He meets Danta’s blues, his own dark and already full of as much desire as he thinks he physically can harbor, attentive in the movement of his fingertips and arms where he winds them down his spine and along his hips, to the curve of his ass and the brush of his tail that the butcher focuses on as he ensures not to pinch it when he surges forward. His chest sweeps against his lover’s back, warm like the fire might just burn out of his chest, where he presses equally heated kisses to the scars along his back.
It’s only a momentary notion, though, despite how much Asta wishes he had it in him for any pretense or warming up. He doesn’t, though, and a deeper portion of him hopes that the Maverick would forgive him for it, even as the low rumble of a sound vibrates out of his throat as he situates them just right, slipping a free hand down to stroke against his lover’s lower stomach, calloused fingers stretching out in a starburst motion to stroke along his cock just as the butcher presses in. The huff that leaves him is as close to satisfaction as he thinks he can muster right now, while his free hand rises to their headboard for the additional stability that for once he isn’t fully focused on.
And that’s just the two of them in the warmth of their den, his possessiveness blooming like an invisible cage that’s stifling despite its invisibility. He meets Danta’s blues, his own dark and already full of as much desire as he thinks he physically can harbor, attentive in the movement of his fingertips and arms where he winds them down his spine and along his hips, to the curve of his ass and the brush of his tail that the butcher focuses on as he ensures not to pinch it when he surges forward. His chest sweeps against his lover’s back, warm like the fire might just burn out of his chest, where he presses equally heated kisses to the scars along his back.
It’s only a momentary notion, though, despite how much Asta wishes he had it in him for any pretense or warming up. He doesn’t, though, and a deeper portion of him hopes that the Maverick would forgive him for it, even as the low rumble of a sound vibrates out of his throat as he situates them just right, slipping a free hand down to stroke against his lover’s lower stomach, calloused fingers stretching out in a starburst motion to stroke along his cock just as the butcher presses in. The huff that leaves him is as close to satisfaction as he thinks he can muster right now, while his free hand rises to their headboard for the additional stability that for once he isn’t fully focused on.
Astaroth
it's a roulette kinda deal, black and red is what you get
