// with our one foot in the grave //
For what it’s worth, the butcher doesn’t intend on asking again in a few minutes. He simply wants nothing more than to indulge in this moment — letting Danta paint over the scar tissue with soft kisses, with greed, with need. And in lieu of it all, he fully doesn’t plan on leaving this room for some time. He is Danta’s, Danta is his.
And where Danta lets the frown cross his face, a glimmer of possessiveness creeps into the butcher’s bones, a heavy leaded weight that’s running up and down his spine. Blinking his dark eyes open, warmed from firelight and honey tinted as he meets Danta’s gaze with the answer. His grin twists into a smirk and his hands lift to tangle in golden threads, careful to keep his horns from tearing through the blankets and furs. “It would be my pleasure.” Comes the breathy purr, the release of control that allows Asta to turn them, arms tightening around Danta just enough to flip them and press his weight in against the Maverick.
It’s momentary, at least, because he sits up from where he’s settled between Danta’s legs, shrugging completely out of the shirt and waistcoat, taking his time in a brattish way to fold them and set them to the side. The second he’s done, though, his carefully kept back hair falls forward as he hovers over Danta, diving in behind a curtain of black, lips meeting the Theocrat’s jaw, before it dives down to press against his throat.
And where Danta lets the frown cross his face, a glimmer of possessiveness creeps into the butcher’s bones, a heavy leaded weight that’s running up and down his spine. Blinking his dark eyes open, warmed from firelight and honey tinted as he meets Danta’s gaze with the answer. His grin twists into a smirk and his hands lift to tangle in golden threads, careful to keep his horns from tearing through the blankets and furs. “It would be my pleasure.” Comes the breathy purr, the release of control that allows Asta to turn them, arms tightening around Danta just enough to flip them and press his weight in against the Maverick.
It’s momentary, at least, because he sits up from where he’s settled between Danta’s legs, shrugging completely out of the shirt and waistcoat, taking his time in a brattish way to fold them and set them to the side. The second he’s done, though, his carefully kept back hair falls forward as he hovers over Danta, diving in behind a curtain of black, lips meeting the Theocrat’s jaw, before it dives down to press against his throat.
Astaroth
// while the other one's kicking its way right down to hell //
