[SE] or christ, hold me like a knife

// you've got a passion in those eyes //

Oh, the other man says, and Danta barely has time to form the words in his mind before Astaroth is sliding out of his lap and the yawning space between them is somehow worse than the cage of his body had been. ”Asta,” he begins, fidgeting and looking to the ceiling for help, only for the sight of the bruised Ancient prowling across to the fireplace to steal his attention entirely.

Quite why Danta needs to push Asta away only to want to instantly follow him is something that likely needs several (dozen) sessions of therapy to unpick. But they aren’t in therapy - instead the Maverick is left watching the butcher’s firelit silhouette as promises of violence and horror drip from his lips and, naturally, it’s one of the hottest fucking things he’s ever seen.

Uninjured as he is, Danta’s footsteps are silent as he slips from the bed and crosses the room, all but draping against Asta’s back. ”This is… a foreign feeling for me too,” he whispers, the words a bit too quick, mumbled against bruised skin. ”But it seems to me that the best thing I can do for you right now, as Theocrat and as… as this,” This being pressed flush against the other Ancient’s skin, his tail curling around Asta’s leg, ”is to indulge you, however that looks. Just keep it out of the Inner Quarter, or I’ll have to answer questions.”

Dantalion

// so aim it straight and true //