// standing, stomping in the damage and the ruins of a slip of tongue //
Well, it is late and maybe there’s others that couldn’t make it home or are vacationing somewhere warmer that makes for the Inn not having rooms. Maybe that’s why they see so many people out as they dive into Haulani proper? He doesn’t know. What he does know is that Danta’s hand is warm in his as he’s tugged along.
Light flickers like a beacon and not unlike a moth, Asta is drawn to it. Up and inside, letting Danta do the talking because gods he’s sure he’d stumble over simply asking for a room. He’s certainly in no position to claim to charge it to the Grounds or whatever it was Danta chose. All he can think about is the comfort of the Maverick asking for a single room, the warmth of his hand in his, and honestly that brimming hairline fracture of stress brought on from what happened at the Hanged Man and the thinning line of his bloodlust.
He can hear the clink of the key as he flashes a bright smile of gratitude toward the reception bar, before being ferried further in, dark eyes find the stairs as Danta halts and mentions them, thankful for that because he’s sure he would have tripped.
“I dislike this.” Astaroth hums, tongue dipping out to wet his lips. Giving Danta’s hand a squeeze before pulling him in against him, his free hand grips the railing, and he starts to march them up the stairs one by one. “One.. Two…” The butcher counts them out in a whisper, and it sounds like it could be motivation at first, if he didn’t pass by the number three by the time they’ve reached the fifth step, utilizing his tall frame as a sort of cage, bolstering Danta with his tail. “How many stairs do we have to go up?” He asks, as if he were already sick of them, nose wrinkling for emphasis. It doesn’t help that this particular step begins to creak loudly, like it really would love to break.
Light flickers like a beacon and not unlike a moth, Asta is drawn to it. Up and inside, letting Danta do the talking because gods he’s sure he’d stumble over simply asking for a room. He’s certainly in no position to claim to charge it to the Grounds or whatever it was Danta chose. All he can think about is the comfort of the Maverick asking for a single room, the warmth of his hand in his, and honestly that brimming hairline fracture of stress brought on from what happened at the Hanged Man and the thinning line of his bloodlust.
He can hear the clink of the key as he flashes a bright smile of gratitude toward the reception bar, before being ferried further in, dark eyes find the stairs as Danta halts and mentions them, thankful for that because he’s sure he would have tripped.
“I dislike this.” Astaroth hums, tongue dipping out to wet his lips. Giving Danta’s hand a squeeze before pulling him in against him, his free hand grips the railing, and he starts to march them up the stairs one by one. “One.. Two…” The butcher counts them out in a whisper, and it sounds like it could be motivation at first, if he didn’t pass by the number three by the time they’ve reached the fifth step, utilizing his tall frame as a sort of cage, bolstering Danta with his tail. “How many stairs do we have to go up?” He asks, as if he were already sick of them, nose wrinkling for emphasis. It doesn’t help that this particular step begins to creak loudly, like it really would love to break.
Astaroth
// with tragic consequences, i think that we've all made our gravest mistakes //
