Astaroth
// so sip the gossip, drink 'til you choke. sip the gossip, burn down your throat //
For the Butcher, Quentin remains in his peripheral – at least for the time being. Long enough that as he twists them around and pins Danta to the bedpost, he half expects it to go as they usually do. But, with the reminder of a struggle he isn’t surprised to feel the Maverick push back – and while the Butcher wouldn’t ordinarily concede, Danta pulls all the stops. He surges up, leg wrapping around his hips, trying to twist them. At first, it doesn’t go far, but the flick of the tongue against his too sharp teeth and the flood of blood and the red smile aimed his way absolutely has everything melting away.
A shiver races through his spine, distracted enough that his tail flicks and twitches like a hunting feline, especially as Danta gains the upper hand. Twisted as he is and up against the bed post, Asta arcs his body in against his fiancé, dully hearing Quentin’s compliment in a distance far away from here. “You flatter me, darling.” The Butcher purrs back in his own form of distraction, eyes dark and already heavy and focused with lust, the iron lingering on his tongue a guide marker for when he surges in this time, stealing a chaste kiss before he diverts from the course and his head drops toward Danta’s shoulder, just above the loose cut of that white shirt.
His teeth sink in a fraction in the bite he claims, the growl of appreciation blooming through him as the iron hits his tongue, but it’s not enough to cause any lightheadedness. It is enough, however, to start to drip from the puncture points, soaking into the purity of his fiance’s shirt, while he leaves bloody kisses up and along Danta’s neck. One hand drops to snag his leg wrapped around his waist still, while the other threads and tightens in the Maverick’s blonde hair, muscles tensing as he tries to utilize his momentary distraction against him to twist him toward the bed this time, fully prepared to follow him down and blanket him in a little cage of his own making.
A shiver races through his spine, distracted enough that his tail flicks and twitches like a hunting feline, especially as Danta gains the upper hand. Twisted as he is and up against the bed post, Asta arcs his body in against his fiancé, dully hearing Quentin’s compliment in a distance far away from here. “You flatter me, darling.” The Butcher purrs back in his own form of distraction, eyes dark and already heavy and focused with lust, the iron lingering on his tongue a guide marker for when he surges in this time, stealing a chaste kiss before he diverts from the course and his head drops toward Danta’s shoulder, just above the loose cut of that white shirt.
His teeth sink in a fraction in the bite he claims, the growl of appreciation blooming through him as the iron hits his tongue, but it’s not enough to cause any lightheadedness. It is enough, however, to start to drip from the puncture points, soaking into the purity of his fiance’s shirt, while he leaves bloody kisses up and along Danta’s neck. One hand drops to snag his leg wrapped around his waist still, while the other threads and tightens in the Maverick’s blonde hair, muscles tensing as he tries to utilize his momentary distraction against him to twist him toward the bed this time, fully prepared to follow him down and blanket him in a little cage of his own making.
// you're not iconic, you are just like them all. don't act like you don't know //
