hold me tight or don't

// there's shadows on the walls //

Danta can't help but laugh at the prospect of the butcher being good; it's a quick, rough sound, and he shakes his head to the other man. "Liar," he mutters, even as Asta thinks the same thing. Not that him being anything less than himself will stop the Maverick at this point, and as fingers of fire rove across his body with every bit of possessive heat that he craves, backed up by the physical press of Asta's hands, he's heedless to ignore what his body wants.

Shifting enough only to cast their shirts aside, as Danta is able to feel the press of the other man's bare skin paired with the confirmation that he's got the butcher's trust in his hands, it takes a few moments for him to recover sense enough to do anything about it. Flush against the taller Ancient and already feeling a curl of heat low in his belly that burns brighter than any fire racing up the length of his spine, it's a clumsy thing for him to steer them towards the bed, but eventually he hopes to encourage Asta down onto it.

Dropping apologetic kisses against his lips and the side of his neck, the belt he's stolen is used to tether Asta's hands together and against one of the railings of the headboard, the Maverick's movements smooth with the ease of practice. And for once he's not smug about it either, sitting astride the other man and tilting up his jaw for a real kiss, as if to enjoy these final moments before he introduces a potentially lethal dose of chaos into the proceedings.

"Tell me if it's too much," he whispers. If you can, he might have added, before his tongue flicks up to press firmly against one of the butcher's fangs, spilling the iron tang of blood into the kiss just before Danta draws back, knowing better than to keep his face too close to those teeth.

Dantalion

// of moments far too troubling to recall //