all you have is your fire, and the place you need to reach
Caught by the warmth in honey dark eyes and the softness in a smile usually sharp enough to carve through flesh, Danta is happy to linger in this sun dappled moment; it feels quiet and right in a way that so few moments do, and he's keen not to waste it. He does catch on the word celebration, though, chin lifting a touch deviously, lips parting to form the very question Asta soon poses himself, the Maverick tilting a smile his way as if begging him to elaborate further.
Elaborate he does.
And however thick-skulled Danta might be - and he certainly can be that way, especially in moments like this - something crackling and vibrant shoots through him as he hears the butcher out, some innate recognition of the sort of speech this is and the sort of thing it leads onto. "Asta," he tries, feeling his cheeks flush with heat that could rival any sunburn, especially as his full name purrs from the other man's lips.
Glancing fleetingly down to where warm hands skim across the silvery scar on his forearm, his breath catches on whatever he wants to say next, whatever denial of all the things Asta seems to think he is that burn on his tongue. Feeling his heart start to hammer in his throat, the butcher lowers himself to one knee and Danta feels the most absurd urge to corral him back up, to tell him that he doesn't belong there.
He barely sees the bone box, gorgeously carved and intricately, lovingly detailed though it might be, hearing only the softly vulnerable question that hangs in the air between them and the deafening beats of silence that follow in its wake.
He's supposed to answer. Gods, he's supposed to say something, but suddenly his mouth feels stuffed with cotton. And for a traitorous moment the old anxiety rears its ugly head, peeking out from a space between heartbeats where Danta wants to flee, to cloak himself in violence and decadence and humour to deflect from the truth of it. That truth being, of course, that Asta has carved his way inexorably into his heart, and the scars of him are things Danta will carry forever. Wants to carry forever.
On a shaky exhale, he finds himself flinching into motion, trying and failing to stifle the smile creeping across his face. "Get up," he says, voice tight and rough with emotion. "For gods' sake, get up here - of course I'll fucking marry you."
Elaborate he does.
And however thick-skulled Danta might be - and he certainly can be that way, especially in moments like this - something crackling and vibrant shoots through him as he hears the butcher out, some innate recognition of the sort of speech this is and the sort of thing it leads onto. "Asta," he tries, feeling his cheeks flush with heat that could rival any sunburn, especially as his full name purrs from the other man's lips.
Glancing fleetingly down to where warm hands skim across the silvery scar on his forearm, his breath catches on whatever he wants to say next, whatever denial of all the things Asta seems to think he is that burn on his tongue. Feeling his heart start to hammer in his throat, the butcher lowers himself to one knee and Danta feels the most absurd urge to corral him back up, to tell him that he doesn't belong there.
He barely sees the bone box, gorgeously carved and intricately, lovingly detailed though it might be, hearing only the softly vulnerable question that hangs in the air between them and the deafening beats of silence that follow in its wake.
He's supposed to answer. Gods, he's supposed to say something, but suddenly his mouth feels stuffed with cotton. And for a traitorous moment the old anxiety rears its ugly head, peeking out from a space between heartbeats where Danta wants to flee, to cloak himself in violence and decadence and humour to deflect from the truth of it. That truth being, of course, that Asta has carved his way inexorably into his heart, and the scars of him are things Danta will carry forever. Wants to carry forever.
On a shaky exhale, he finds himself flinching into motion, trying and failing to stifle the smile creeping across his face. "Get up," he says, voice tight and rough with emotion. "For gods' sake, get up here - of course I'll fucking marry you."
Dantalion
don't you ever tame your demons, but always keep 'em on a leash
Horns: Diamond - they look very similar to #2 in this image.
