honey, ask me, I should know
Now, Danta has worn (and not worn) a great many number of things in his time in the Dusklight, and well before then too. Never, though, has he felt revered in the way he does as Astaroth's honey dark eyes rove over him, and it's enough to have a flush of heat flooding his cheeks. Drawing closer as he's beckoned, he settles himself astride the other man's lap, eyes averted and lips poised to tell the butcher to stop being ridiculous.
No one has ever called the Maverick beautiful, much as he's been referred to in other (positive and sexual) ways, and he finds his tongue tied up by the term. "If only I were as warm as that," he murmurs when he finally finds his voice again, fingers reaching out to tease through the other man's dark hair and against the sharp tines of his horns. "We might never have to worry about Deepfrost."
Smirking, he lets one of his hands cease with its fussing so he might reach down to tilt up Asta's chin into a kiss that was always waiting, from the moment the butcher set foot into the Dusklight.
just to sit outside your door
