sweetest tongue has sharpest tooth

// up above so, up above so quiet //

Flame burns and bolsters, singing nothing but air from the careful placement that Asta’s hand takes. It’s the perfect addition to the sensation of his own internal fire, the way that Danta is always able to stoke it to life within him, easier this season than otherwise. It stokes further with the sounds that leave his lover’s mouth, between the panting rise and fall of his breaths, the way his name sounds so divine on his wicked tongue.

He’s possessive and all consuming, indulging Danta in every way he knows that he can. The snap of his hips to the tight grip of his tail, the hand that presses and soothes between his shoulder blades now. Such that when Danta makes his request, it’s with the chorus of his own low rumbles of sounds that he maintains the pace set if only to be able to grit out between his own panting breaths; “don’t wait on my account.” It’s as much permission as it is the arrogance that he doesn’t think Danta could even if he wanted to.

Not that the butcher minds, his own tether growing tighter and tighter, even more so with the faint scent of iron in the air as his lover buries his head which only positions him in such a way that makes it easier for the butcher’s punishing thrusts to send them both into their climaxes.

Astaroth

// down below so, down below so violent //