i've always liked to play with fire

Dantalion

innocence died screaming
honey, ask me, I should know

Danta can't be the sun on a Longheat day, he decides, because if that was the case, Astaroth's hands could never feel as hot as they do roving across his skin. Shifting against his every touch as if starved of it - a ridiculous notion for someone who spends as much time between other people's sheets as the Maverick, but it's nonetheless true - he says with his lips and tongue things that his voice would never air.

Drawing back enough for the butcher to speak and for his wandering hands to continue their wicked path, Danta raises a brow as he continues to wax lyrical, fingers whispering across his cheek until he can rest the back of his palm against the other man's forehead. "No fever," he drawls, mischief glittering in his blue eyes. "So you must have hit your head on your way back from the bar." Only that would explain this sudden warm turn, right? Right?

Tilting his head into the fingertips teasing along his jaw and through his hair, despite the obvious - that being his position in Asta's lap and everything it's guaranteed to ignite when it comes to Danta's libido (sorry) - the Maverick brushes his thumb across the other man's lower lip, as if trying to decide if he wants another taste. "I never took you for a poet." He smirks.

I slithered here from Eden
just to sit outside your door

Table base by Skylark