// sun comin' up on a dream come around //
"Tear Shots?" Danta wrinkles his nose. "Never." Already he's considering potential names for the cocktails he's definitely not going to steal, besides. So far in his mind he quite likes Don't Be Salty or Childhood Dreams for a moniker, but then he's distracted by putting his empty shot glass on a passing tray, and the skim of warm fingers against his lower back. Smiling over his shoulder at Astaroth and turning to face him, he only quickly gets a glimpse of Maea and everything that's going to fucking mean, before lo and behold, she's approaching them.
With his jaw feathering - because like it or not, the pale Ancient definitely chooses her fucking timing, and obviously they're going to be a lot less likely to cause a fuss at a friend's party than they otherwise might be (though the jury is never quite out on that) - Danta lets a hand smooth across Asta's chest and hook around his waist, as if to hold him back from anything he might decide on a whim.
His smile is brief and tight-lipped towards Maea, because however white the flag, he isn't the one who has been truly wronged here, and so his reaction will always be guided by the man at his side; a man he leans in to murmur something to, lips ghosting across the shell of his ear, fingers flexing against his hip. Punctuating the remark - nothing more than a whispered reminder that this is Flora's night - with a gentle graze of teeth against the soft, scar-free skin beneath his ear, he nods towards a quiet little table in the corner where they might get their bearings.
With his jaw feathering - because like it or not, the pale Ancient definitely chooses her fucking timing, and obviously they're going to be a lot less likely to cause a fuss at a friend's party than they otherwise might be (though the jury is never quite out on that) - Danta lets a hand smooth across Asta's chest and hook around his waist, as if to hold him back from anything he might decide on a whim.
His smile is brief and tight-lipped towards Maea, because however white the flag, he isn't the one who has been truly wronged here, and so his reaction will always be guided by the man at his side; a man he leans in to murmur something to, lips ghosting across the shell of his ear, fingers flexing against his hip. Punctuating the remark - nothing more than a whispered reminder that this is Flora's night - with a gentle graze of teeth against the soft, scar-free skin beneath his ear, he nods towards a quiet little table in the corner where they might get their bearings.
Dantalion
// one hundred years from the empire now //
Horns: Diamond - they look very similar to #2 in this image.
