all the blood and the dust

// no one wants a half remembered tragedy. You must know the width of the knife //

It’s poetic in the way Danta tends to be, short and succinct enough that the butcher can fill in the gaps and spaces with everything else he can imagine it to be. In short, it’s perfect enough that he hums a sound of approval while he busies himself with pressing into the Maverick and stroking his cock in the process, greedy enough to not keep him wanting but also not quite enough to make this end before it’s really begun.

As he curves over his lover and feels the indulgent press of warm fingers against his spine and scars, the groan that makes up his name, Asta breaks some of the distance between them to press a kiss to his collarbone. “Oh I know you are, darling.” He purrs playfully before he takes a long and slow inhale of breath as he props himself up, his free hand fisted in the furs just above Danta’s head, allowing him to rock his hips in a steady yet somehow deeper series of thrusts that only make him tense further with the thought it takes to rein himself in. “We want to enjoy this, no?” He asks with a breathy question, one that has his hand finally taking Danta’s length to stroke a compliant pace rather than the softer lilt of his fingers.

Astaroth

// and how it ruined you. Name the organs it kissed //