I told you, you were brave

// too many war wounds and not enough wars //

Humming his obvious approval at the iron that invades their kiss, Danta has no idea how he's supposed to keep his senses or to pull himself back before he passes out. His arm drapes back around Asta's shoulders, clasping him closer, and when he finally does part from the other man's lips, it's only for an inch or two as he tries to pant for breath. "I love you." He whispers the words again, as if they both might have missed them the first time around, and as he leans in to close the distance between them once more, he realises how ridiculously true they are.

He loves the butcher, loves everything about him; the violence bound tightly in manners and charm, the dry wit, the beauty in the chaos he weaves between his fingers. He loves his sass, his sweet tooth and the way he doesn't understand certain jokes or customs, the slow burn of his temper, the unfathomable patience he has for Danta's antics. From the press of his hands to the prick of his teeth and the horrors that lurk in his mind at night, he fucking loves it all.

"You are quite drunk," he whispers when he draws away for a second time, amusement written in his tone. "Can I interest you in a walk outside, or a glass of water, or perhaps even going to bed?"

Dantalion

// too few rounds in the ring and not enough settled scores //