the gold and the rust

// standing, stomping in the damage and the ruins of a slip of tongue //

There is the blanketing warmth, embraced by the way Danta’s leg hooks around his hip and Asta presses in even more, asking the question of whether it’s enough for the Maverick and giving simultaneously no time to answer. At least, until they have to part, and the answer is met with a snort, lips twisting into a sharp smirk, right when Danta enacts his revenge. His breath hitches and he pushes away any deeper urges in lieu of keeping this actually quite nice night remaining just as such.

But it does give him a moment to withdraw, propping himself up again and precisely in a way to press his hips into Danta’s, his hand lifting to brush back any loosened blonde, fingertips trailing against the diamond curve and sharp prongs from it, admiring the rainbows that dance within it before his dark gaze dips to scan his face, his warm hands dipping down to brush a calloused thumb against the sharp jut of his cheekbone, following the hollow edge of his cheek to his neck. “I think you’re right.”

And that’s where the sentimentality ends, before it can become something too much, because he lifts Danta’s chin and dives in for another kiss, fully pressing his weight down, smothering Danta in his warmth and the blankets and the heat from the roaring fire.

Astaroth

// with tragic consequences, i think that we've all made our gravest mistakes //