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
Its sweet relief as it is only barely itching the scratch the butcher has woken up with. One he’s never experienced like this before. And he’s certainly not in the correct mindset to figure it out right this second. Not when he’s finally sunk into the Maverick, with the delight of the sound of the moans that leave his lover’s lips. “Gods,” he grits out when he hears his name pour into the air.
The grating response earns a distracted, breathy laugh with each possessive snap of his hips, a branding sensation that he can’t stifle down as he grips onto the headboard with a hand heating up completely out of his control. The wood blackens and smokes under his touch, ignored for the way he continues to stroke Danta’s length, the way he curves to press messy and chaotic kisses against his spine. “When do I not, darling?” It’s cocky, it’s arrogant, it’s part of the dark desire that burns through him, sick and sweet. Molasses in his veins, heated to run faster through his veins as if urged.
It is the early morning, though, and despite the surging desire in his bones, it’s like a rabbit he’s trying to chase with all the determination of his fyrhund shift, knowing it’ll come to an end sooner rather than later. He doesn’t know if it’ll fix this odd sensation within him, but for the moment it’s perfect. Each punishing rock of his hips into Danta’s frame, the way the smoke settles in little wisps that would thread into the sage and citrus scent of Danta’s sleep tossed blond crown. Each shift and shiver of his lover’s spine enough to spark more surging electricity through his veins as he continues to chase the feeling, punctuated with far less restrained groans and growls escaping his throat to the point that he’s wreathed in his shadows, a creature of the darkest pit of night.
The grating response earns a distracted, breathy laugh with each possessive snap of his hips, a branding sensation that he can’t stifle down as he grips onto the headboard with a hand heating up completely out of his control. The wood blackens and smokes under his touch, ignored for the way he continues to stroke Danta’s length, the way he curves to press messy and chaotic kisses against his spine. “When do I not, darling?” It’s cocky, it’s arrogant, it’s part of the dark desire that burns through him, sick and sweet. Molasses in his veins, heated to run faster through his veins as if urged.
It is the early morning, though, and despite the surging desire in his bones, it’s like a rabbit he’s trying to chase with all the determination of his fyrhund shift, knowing it’ll come to an end sooner rather than later. He doesn’t know if it’ll fix this odd sensation within him, but for the moment it’s perfect. Each punishing rock of his hips into Danta’s frame, the way the smoke settles in little wisps that would thread into the sage and citrus scent of Danta’s sleep tossed blond crown. Each shift and shiver of his lover’s spine enough to spark more surging electricity through his veins as he continues to chase the feeling, punctuated with far less restrained groans and growls escaping his throat to the point that he’s wreathed in his shadows, a creature of the darkest pit of night.
Astaroth
it's a roulette kinda deal, black and red is what you get
