// i've got a lot to show for the time you're gonna lose //
“Am I?” Asta purrs, pressed to his lover’s neck by the insistence of the hand perfectly in his hair. He presses more kisses to the smooth, faintly scarred skin there from bites he’d left in the past. “It does have a lovely ring to it.” The king portion, that is – all hypothetically. He doesn’t want the responsibility of leading anything. He never has. But the temptation to be called a king in some retrospect blooms in that part of his ego that craves recognition.
Not that he’s lacking at this moment, because he’s very much not. Danta gives it to him any chance he gets, despite the overwhelming fact he most certainly comes second to the Maverick. And while a version of himself years ago would balk at the thought, he can’t imagine any other place he’d rather be.
They jostle as Danta’s hips rock into the butcher’s touch, the laugh he offers warm and low, pressing a kiss to his jeweled ear. “Oh, but of course, darling.” They both know Danta won’t be, though it should come as no surprise given it’s the other Ancient’s birthday party. It’s the cherry on top of a lovely evening. As such, they part ever so slightly, the butcher forcing his head away from Danta’s neck despite any intent to keep his head against his neck.
And just like that, Danta does precisely the thing that the butcher adores – the pleading whisper that Asta can’t help but to give into. It’s a switch up from the slow procession, the way his hands move to deftly finish unbuttoning his pants, tugging them down to leave him bare – one hand rising to cup his jaw as he surges in for a kiss that sparks more blood to bloom between them. His tail unwraps from the bedpost but stays around Danta’s leg as he moves him from the edge of the bed to push him back until he’s surrounded by the silks and furs of their bedding, leaving the butcher standing to shed the rest of his clothes, illuminated by the light of the flame that flickers against his dark hair, horns, and flushed skin. “I always mean it, Dantalion, my love.” He drawls, giving him a bit of a show as the last of the clothes are kicked away, allowing him to descend into the blankets with the Maverick.
Not that he’s lacking at this moment, because he’s very much not. Danta gives it to him any chance he gets, despite the overwhelming fact he most certainly comes second to the Maverick. And while a version of himself years ago would balk at the thought, he can’t imagine any other place he’d rather be.
They jostle as Danta’s hips rock into the butcher’s touch, the laugh he offers warm and low, pressing a kiss to his jeweled ear. “Oh, but of course, darling.” They both know Danta won’t be, though it should come as no surprise given it’s the other Ancient’s birthday party. It’s the cherry on top of a lovely evening. As such, they part ever so slightly, the butcher forcing his head away from Danta’s neck despite any intent to keep his head against his neck.
And just like that, Danta does precisely the thing that the butcher adores – the pleading whisper that Asta can’t help but to give into. It’s a switch up from the slow procession, the way his hands move to deftly finish unbuttoning his pants, tugging them down to leave him bare – one hand rising to cup his jaw as he surges in for a kiss that sparks more blood to bloom between them. His tail unwraps from the bedpost but stays around Danta’s leg as he moves him from the edge of the bed to push him back until he’s surrounded by the silks and furs of their bedding, leaving the butcher standing to shed the rest of his clothes, illuminated by the light of the flame that flickers against his dark hair, horns, and flushed skin. “I always mean it, Dantalion, my love.” He drawls, giving him a bit of a show as the last of the clothes are kicked away, allowing him to descend into the blankets with the Maverick.
Astaroth
// by the time i go, i'll tear you up in two //
