walk past a devil child

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

"Oh, that's quite true," Danta concedes with a huff of laughter. "And if anyone can provide the appropriate incentive, it's you," he adds with a smirk. Absently tucking his fingers down the waistband of Asta's slate grey pants, as if it's not enough to merely feel the heat rolling off him through his clothes, the Maverick leans in to nibble affectionately at the side of his lover's neck, teasing the lock of dark hair through his free hand.

"If you had," he informs him, voice muffled against olive skin and the scent of blood and pineapple, "I would have lied for you. Said it was a particularly biting wind, or something." With another quiet laugh, he finally draws back to look up at Asta properly, blue eyes uncharacteristically soft, but then given the amount of booze in their system, it's not all too surprising that emotions are running close to the surface.

Reaching up with his thumb to brush it across the butcher's lips, so usually adorned with a smile, Danta seems to think to himself for a moment before nodding his slow agreement. "Do you want to get out of here?" he asks softly. "I'll go in and tell Flora she can come and find us at her house. I'm pretty sure I know where it is."

Dantalion

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