oh darling get me drunk, invite me in

i will never go backwards, i will never be seen
in the wake of disaster ...

“Perhaps— Perhaps both.” He starts off, broken up by the way Danta tilts his head back, baring his throat to him. He jumps on the opportunity, bathing and lavishing his lover’s neck with his own form of bruising, sharp kisses. He’s cautious, though, not wanting to make him too sore, so the bites aren’t strong but enough to prick and draw blood to the surface.

It’s that which distracts him temporarily as his lover pokes and prods at his own jealousy. It stokes the flame in more ways than one, making his hips buck sharper and more decisive. Danta’s words cut and break along the grunts and groans that leave the butcher, tongue sweeping along the beads of blood as he tries to figure his words out — distracted as much as anyone would be to have Danta in his lap like this.

His hand quickens along Danta’s length, as does the rhythm of his hips, aching and throbbing with tension. “Wishing they were me?” Comes the huff, the growl. “Gods, but nobody does it better than I do, do they darling?” The arrogance flares, the thrust of his hips with more neediness and desire, a tipping point of trying to prove something that doesn’t need proving.

Astaroth

will you sink down to me?