// no one wants a half remembered tragedy. You must know the width of the knife //
It is not nor is it the last time Danta’s called him a prick, and the only response he has to that is to keep that bloodied grin on display even as he jostles them and eventually rolls them onto their sides. His arms wind around him, keeping him just as close as Danta keeps him. He feels the heat of each breath pressed against his throat and Asta tangles his legs with his, his tail sweeping across the furs and twitching with content.
The confirmation of Danta saying it alleviates the quiet intensity of his need to reassure himself that the Maverick wasn’t going anywhere. He knows it, in the dark crevices of his heart and his mind, but the stag in his skin isn’t sated unless it’s said over and over again. “Good.” He hums, his chin nestling into the crown of blonde, free from the diamond that matches the ring on his finger that sweeps over his lover’s side.
He can feel the numbed sensation of Danta’s kisses against the scars on his chest, some more tender than others, and with such a focus on it the butcher can’t help himself when it’s his turn to grow a bit sappy. “I don’t mind them so much anymore.” Comes the quiet and thickly accented admission – something surprising, probably, given how much Asta had always tried to hide them, how he’d always wished they were gone, not wanting to relive the memories constantly that had put them on his skin.
The confirmation of Danta saying it alleviates the quiet intensity of his need to reassure himself that the Maverick wasn’t going anywhere. He knows it, in the dark crevices of his heart and his mind, but the stag in his skin isn’t sated unless it’s said over and over again. “Good.” He hums, his chin nestling into the crown of blonde, free from the diamond that matches the ring on his finger that sweeps over his lover’s side.
He can feel the numbed sensation of Danta’s kisses against the scars on his chest, some more tender than others, and with such a focus on it the butcher can’t help himself when it’s his turn to grow a bit sappy. “I don’t mind them so much anymore.” Comes the quiet and thickly accented admission – something surprising, probably, given how much Asta had always tried to hide them, how he’d always wished they were gone, not wanting to relive the memories constantly that had put them on his skin.
Astaroth
// and how it ruined you. Name the organs it kissed //
