mississippi boys, inner city boys

// I thought of angels choking on their halos //

"Mmhm," Danta agrees, smiling around another generous pull from the bottle. "They call it the Lucky Rum Fountain. I don't know if it's actually lucky, but in a place like Torchline with a fountain like that, I bet everyone feels it." So long as they don't mistake it for water when they're thirsty, after all. Still, with Asta's approval, the Maverick fumbles to put the cork back into the bottle for now, before tucking himself back into the crook of the butcher's neck where he can't get stabbed with the sharp tines of his horns.

"That's right, I suppose you do," he drawls, peeping up at the doorframe as they enter the inn and offering a jovial wave to the receptionist as they go by. "Fine, I will consider a healing fountain. Or a healing fire. Or a healing rum fountain." Smirking, he reaches out with his free hand as they begin to ascend the stairs (so many stairs) to tease his fingers through the butcher's soft hair.

"What a shame, though. That means I'll rarely end up walking around with your little trophies on display," he laments, shifting to get his own feet back under them as they finally reach the door to their room. Danta, of course, is referring to the suspicious bruises shaped like fingerprints and teeth, the healing nicks and marks from bites that have drawn blood, and anything else Asta can think of.

Dantalion

// get them drunk on rose water //