southern comfort's comforting, isn't it?

all you have is your fire, and the place you need to reach

"Good," Danta purrs, keeping one of the bottles in hand as he returns, setting the other beside the chair before he's shifting to straddle Asta's lap, fingers coaxing through his dark hair as if to neaten it up for him. He recognises the dark flush to the butcher's cheeks even before he scents the faint blood in the air, the Maverick tutting under his breath and kissing the corner of his mouth. "No fair," he whispers. "I wanted to be the reason you look like that."

Grinning another kiss against his flushed cheek, Danta uncaps the bottle with one hand and rocks his hips against the other man, a soft huff of breath leaving his chest to feel the hard, trapped length of him already begging for attention. "We both know you've wanted to go for my throat for about as long as we've met," he mumbles, lips brushing against Asta's until he abruptly sits up, chin lifting to bare the sun-kissed column of his neck to the butcher.

"If I didn't offer it to you now, when would I?" he continues, gazing down at him with hooded eyes made molten in the light of the fire, his pulse jumping against his jugular, begging for a bite.

Dantalion

don't you ever tame your demons, but always keep 'em on a leash