I told you, you were brave

lord help anyone who stands in my way; for I am not merciful, and i am not kind
and i am not afraid to make you wish that i was

“Mm, the orange?” Astaroth hums, clearly distracted by the hands working at his shirt to unbutton it along with the feel of Danta’s warm body beneath his own hands, ghosting along his thin torso in gentle swaths like he’s committing it to memory for the thousandth time. It’s reverent, even as he shifts slightly when his shirt is opened and completely unbuttoned, abandoning the task of keeping his hands on the Maverick momentarily to unroll the sleeves of his shirt (one singed and a challenge, but still he tries) while Danta works at his pants.

It’s smooth going once he can shrug out of his shirt, too. And by the time Danta’s pulling him in and looping his arms around his shoulders, the butcher winds his own around his lower back, peering up at him through a far less drunk, more open gaze. “You are beautiful, Danta.” He hums softly, not for the first time he’s said something along these lines, but each time he does it seems just as genuine, just as awed. This time, though, there’s a touch of his hopeless romantics breaking through, overwhelmingly in love despite not being able to parse those feelings all too well.

He noses up to press his lips to Danta’s jaw gently, paving a slow path to his mouth, as if to punctuate just how much he reveres him.

Astaroth

say your prayers now