the gold and the rust

// standing, stomping in the damage and the ruins of a slip of tongue //

There’s a semblance of a line in the sand that Astaroth is not fully aware that he’s crossing over when he does, indulging in the tenderness that they had long since sworn off, but he remembers the worry that had overtaken the Maverick when he’d nearly froze to stone and he pairs it up against the strange sensation of his own sudden fears at the fact that Danta had been in danger.

And well, it’s a lot all at once, and nothing he’ll ever verbalize (as far as he’s aware), so he’s content to simply skate his hands and press his body against the blonde’s thinner one, blanketing him and adjusting when the kisses move to his neck, feeling as the drunken fight is given up. He doesn’t care, though, not that the Maverick’s fallen asleep nor the wine that will become sticky in the morning. No, if anything, it gives him just enough comfort to wait until he’s fully passed out and can be moved.

To which he withdraws and adjusts Danta in the bed under the covers and furs, ridding him of the rest of his fancy clothes, folding them nicely before he slips out of his own finery and curls up beside Danta, tucking him in against his chest with a quiet rumble of “goodnight, Danta.” As he waits for his thoughts to quiet enough for him to follow suit.

Astaroth

// with tragic consequences, i think that we've all made our gravest mistakes //