i will never go backwards, i will never be seen
in the wake of disaster ...
in the wake of disaster ...
The Maverick is a master at his craft, honestly. The way that he moves along with Asta but also keeps him in that semblance of control. Even as he backs up to the plush feeling of the moss on the rock beneath his feet. It takes hardly any time to sink down into it, tugging Danta along with him as he braces himself. He’s panting already, need and desire blooming in his chest with the rushing force of a volcano erupting.
“Far be it for me to complain either way, darling.” He purrs, smirking as he leans back a touch, right when Danta snags his cock. A low growl passes by his lips, his length throbbing already in the short amount of time that Danta pitches himself forward. The butcher’s hands are already smoothing against his thighs, sweeping up along his hips, nose bumping against his lover’s own as the tug of a smile pulls onto his face. “I want you more.” Giving him his all, the words escape him with an indulgent gruff moan, low and musical for Danta’s ears only.
It pairs with Danta’s own moan that hits his ears, and without giving much of a chance to steady themselves, the butcher’s back presses into the nails threatening to leave marks behind as he rocks his hips up, flooded with heat and warmth and desire in red patches that spread across his moonlit skin. “Gods, you feel good.”
“Far be it for me to complain either way, darling.” He purrs, smirking as he leans back a touch, right when Danta snags his cock. A low growl passes by his lips, his length throbbing already in the short amount of time that Danta pitches himself forward. The butcher’s hands are already smoothing against his thighs, sweeping up along his hips, nose bumping against his lover’s own as the tug of a smile pulls onto his face. “I want you more.” Giving him his all, the words escape him with an indulgent gruff moan, low and musical for Danta’s ears only.
It pairs with Danta’s own moan that hits his ears, and without giving much of a chance to steady themselves, the butcher’s back presses into the nails threatening to leave marks behind as he rocks his hips up, flooded with heat and warmth and desire in red patches that spread across his moonlit skin. “Gods, you feel good.”
Astaroth
will you sink down to me?
