[SE] or christ, hold me like a knife

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

"I would expect nothing less," Danta mumbles against abused and fire-warmed skin, his head tilting into the caress of flames, his fingers strumming carefully down the ladder of the other man's ribs. "There's only so many times someone can be called a monster before they start acting like one." Again, he might have added, because it's true that since coming to the Hollowed Grounds, they've been walking the line of civilised quite decently in his opinion.

"I will be speaking to her," he adds, almost as an afterthought. Words are by far the tamest of the outcomes Danta had let unfurl in his imagination, after all. "But I'll leave whatever else happens up to you, unless you ask for me." To train, to partake, to cover up - whatever it happens to be. Whether this is a short-lived spree until the butcher feels better or a permanent return to how things were, clearly the Maverick cares little for the consequences so long as Asta feels more like himself.

Nosing up until he can press his lips to the underside of the other man's jaw, Danta's arms slip around him properly, fire blossoming beneath his every touch and caress. "I can send for your clothes whenever you like, by the way," he says, the hint of a smile in his words as if neither of them have realised the butcher is still stark naked. "I'll even help dress you, if you say please."

Dantalion

// so aim it straight and true //