// standing, stomping in the damage and the ruins of a slip of tongue //
Don’t worry Danta, you’re not alone in the way that the words reverberate in your mind.
It’s a dull echo in the butcher’s, the idea of even being able to love is laughable. He was supposed to be a menacing figure. He wasn’t taught how to love, how to be. He was taught to be a predator. He was taught to be disposable. He was then taught to do what people told him and nothing more.
Having hours and days, weeks, to actually allow himself his own freedoms, his own thoughts and motivations, he doesn’t know when the feeling started to creep in. He thinks it may have started with how fervent Danta had been when it came to protecting him, when Astaroth had done little more than try to do his job and protect him in turn.
The feeling of being swept up in Danta’s arms, probably about as drunk as he is now, curled up against the windowsill to watch the lightning as violent promises are hushed into the air, flicker brightly in his mind as he slips out of the Hanged Man, dark eyes trying to see out the Maverick. He comes up empty, glancing back to the door one last time before he exhales a slow sigh, reaches up to brush his hair back, fingertips snagging on a horn in the process.
Asta, Danta loves you but he’s too scared to say it.
Since when was Danta afraid of anything? He hadn’t even seen it when he’d been sent in to punish him. A wild rage in his eyes, sure, but never fear. Never fear.
Hissing out a breath as his tail whips behind him, the butcher picks a path and heads toward it, turning around the corner only to immediately run into the blonde he’d been searching for. And everything in his mind blanks out, blots out, reaching up to steady him and himself. “I am going to assume she does not want us to come back.” For a while at least. Maybe never.
It’s a dull echo in the butcher’s, the idea of even being able to love is laughable. He was supposed to be a menacing figure. He wasn’t taught how to love, how to be. He was taught to be a predator. He was taught to be disposable. He was then taught to do what people told him and nothing more.
Having hours and days, weeks, to actually allow himself his own freedoms, his own thoughts and motivations, he doesn’t know when the feeling started to creep in. He thinks it may have started with how fervent Danta had been when it came to protecting him, when Astaroth had done little more than try to do his job and protect him in turn.
The feeling of being swept up in Danta’s arms, probably about as drunk as he is now, curled up against the windowsill to watch the lightning as violent promises are hushed into the air, flicker brightly in his mind as he slips out of the Hanged Man, dark eyes trying to see out the Maverick. He comes up empty, glancing back to the door one last time before he exhales a slow sigh, reaches up to brush his hair back, fingertips snagging on a horn in the process.
Asta, Danta loves you but he’s too scared to say it.
Since when was Danta afraid of anything? He hadn’t even seen it when he’d been sent in to punish him. A wild rage in his eyes, sure, but never fear. Never fear.
Hissing out a breath as his tail whips behind him, the butcher picks a path and heads toward it, turning around the corner only to immediately run into the blonde he’d been searching for. And everything in his mind blanks out, blots out, reaching up to steady him and himself. “I am going to assume she does not want us to come back.” For a while at least. Maybe never.
Astaroth
// with tragic consequences, i think that we've all made our gravest mistakes //
