// don't you fight my hold on you //
He feels the rumble of the agreement more than he hears it, and he latches onto it in all the ways that the butcher filters away for his memories. If he’d been in the same position of thoughts as the Maverick, he would have also left out the the who, but perhaps promised himself that there was a way he wouldn’t have to live and be alone, so closed off and brutish to anyone that wanted to be close.
Danta’s laugh is music despite the dampener the rain makes, the backdrop to the smooth scrub of his fingers against his scalp, coming away red and red until it starts to clear up, leaving it tinged pink. “Yes. Probably so.” He agrees in the soft murmur of space created with each kiss pressed to a collarbone and the blonde’s chin, settling in enough to look up at him in a mixture of exhaustion from the hunt but the satisfaction of a job well done.
Such that, when Danta leans in for a real kiss, the butcher all but melts into it – taking the quiet fact that for all the wordplay Asta has, Danta’s more meaningful responses tend to be through his body language. A book that he loves to read day after day. Such that right now, he leans into it, rising enough to be able to balance himself on one arm while the other lifts to blood stained gold hair, threading through it with his fingers to keep them close as he all but loses himself in the sage, smoky, bloody kiss.
Danta’s laugh is music despite the dampener the rain makes, the backdrop to the smooth scrub of his fingers against his scalp, coming away red and red until it starts to clear up, leaving it tinged pink. “Yes. Probably so.” He agrees in the soft murmur of space created with each kiss pressed to a collarbone and the blonde’s chin, settling in enough to look up at him in a mixture of exhaustion from the hunt but the satisfaction of a job well done.
Such that, when Danta leans in for a real kiss, the butcher all but melts into it – taking the quiet fact that for all the wordplay Asta has, Danta’s more meaningful responses tend to be through his body language. A book that he loves to read day after day. Such that right now, he leans into it, rising enough to be able to balance himself on one arm while the other lifts to blood stained gold hair, threading through it with his fingers to keep them close as he all but loses himself in the sage, smoky, bloody kiss.
Astaroth
// pour the gasoline, strike your match on me //
