I told you, you were brave

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

"Mm. We'll have to get you a replacement, since you put this one a little too close to the bonfire," Danta agrees of the orange shirt. He of course is focused too much on his own task to assist with the singed sleeve, but he's pleased nonetheless to find Asta has succeeded by the time he's drawing him forward. Long fingers write sweet nothings against the butcher's back and shoulders, purposely following no particular pattern as if to stroke along warm flesh and ragged scar tissue in equal measure.

Smirking to see Asta's dark gaze upon him, one hand slips around so he might brush his thumb across one of his cheeks, admiring the honey black colour of his eyes against the firelight. Of course, the other man's words have heat suddenly rushing up to his cheeks and the tips of his ears, Danta roughly clearing his throat and looking away with a self-deprecating smile. "You're not so bad yourself," he mumbles, saved mercifully by the sudden soft press of Asta's lips.

Turning back to meet his kiss without hesitation, Danta is just as slow and sweet in his reciprocation, and by the time he does sink into Asta's lap, he's practically putty in the butcher's hands, tongue writing promises his body will keep whenever the other man feels like cashing them in.

Dantalion

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