// you've got a passion in those eyes //
Letting his eyes flick open in time to see Asta drown out the world above him, Danta swears he can see the pulse beating in the butcher's neck, the way life and death dance in his eyes even as he's swallowed whole by that honey dark gaze. The repetition drips from his lips as certainly as the blood falls upon Danta's face, and the iron tang of it awakens the parts of him best left sleeping. This time, at least, the Maverick's craving for violence is reserved for the world outside, for any whisper of interruption, but by the grace of the gods, there's nothing and no one around. Only Astaroth.
Only ever Asta.
"I'd like to see them try--" he hisses out, and not just in the exaggerated way such a statement is usually made. Whilst his lips are caught in blood and teeth and the heat of the other man's tongue, Danta very much means it literally. He'd love to see the sorts of things Asta would do to anyone who got between them; he'd relish every breaking bone, every dark punishment, every spray of rich crimson.
Grasping almost desperately at the other man as if he might get more of him somehow, Danta arches against the roll of the butcher's hips, the movement trapping the moan that tries to escape his lips. He's wearing too many clothes, he realises belatedly, and it's with hardly a thought that flames roar up and around them, singing the blankets and catching at the mattress - and burning their clothing to cinders as well, while he's at it.
Only ever Asta.
"I'd like to see them try--" he hisses out, and not just in the exaggerated way such a statement is usually made. Whilst his lips are caught in blood and teeth and the heat of the other man's tongue, Danta very much means it literally. He'd love to see the sorts of things Asta would do to anyone who got between them; he'd relish every breaking bone, every dark punishment, every spray of rich crimson.
Grasping almost desperately at the other man as if he might get more of him somehow, Danta arches against the roll of the butcher's hips, the movement trapping the moan that tries to escape his lips. He's wearing too many clothes, he realises belatedly, and it's with hardly a thought that flames roar up and around them, singing the blankets and catching at the mattress - and burning their clothing to cinders as well, while he's at it.
Dantalion
// so aim it straight and true //
Horns: Diamond - they look very similar to #2 in this image.
