// i am the righteous hand of god //
He goes easily as Danta pulls him down with him, hands bracing on either side of the Theocrat as he presses a fraction harder into the kiss, soaking in the warm hands that run through his dark hair. Parting so that the blonde can speak, hovering so that his hands can work to deftly unbutton the butcher’s clean shirt. “Sure, sure. The point still stands, darling.” He drawls, pressing his bearded cheek into the lips that trail there, along the small little scrape.
Asta’s hands lift while Danta pushes his shirt back, running up under the Maverick’s own shirt in order to remove it easier, fingertips craving the warmth of skin to skin.
“Mm, something like that.” He says by means of near death attempts, not following Danta’s thought process to a complete and utter T. “I have not used my bloodbane since then,” that’s one attempt, “I will apparently be more cautious around sentient trees,” there’s the second, and in a move of misunderstanding (or perhaps not giving Maea the satisfaction of kicking his ass so well,) “and I do hope that there will not be a witch hunt over my proclivities with how little I indulge these days.” Not even thinking of Maea, Astaroth thinks his third near death attempt had been before he’d turned Ancient, when he was tied down in the Climb as punishment.
Either way, the butcher sits up a bit straighter, slipping Danta out of his shirt before he folds it nicely and sets it aside, then shrugs out of the rest of his own shirt to do the same with it, letting the Maverick work at the button of his pants and his belt, should he wish to.
Asta’s hands lift while Danta pushes his shirt back, running up under the Maverick’s own shirt in order to remove it easier, fingertips craving the warmth of skin to skin.
“Mm, something like that.” He says by means of near death attempts, not following Danta’s thought process to a complete and utter T. “I have not used my bloodbane since then,” that’s one attempt, “I will apparently be more cautious around sentient trees,” there’s the second, and in a move of misunderstanding (or perhaps not giving Maea the satisfaction of kicking his ass so well,) “and I do hope that there will not be a witch hunt over my proclivities with how little I indulge these days.” Not even thinking of Maea, Astaroth thinks his third near death attempt had been before he’d turned Ancient, when he was tied down in the Climb as punishment.
Either way, the butcher sits up a bit straighter, slipping Danta out of his shirt before he folds it nicely and sets it aside, then shrugs out of the rest of his own shirt to do the same with it, letting the Maverick work at the button of his pants and his belt, should he wish to.
Astaroth
// i am the devil that you forgot //
