hold me tight or don't

// there's shadows on the walls //

Flora's words ring in his head louder than any feedback from the mic, and though his fingers are numb, Danta manages to escape from the Hanged Man without trapping them in the door, spilling him out onto the relatively empty streets of Haulani. It's late enough that even those who consider themselves party animals have wombled away to sleep it off on the beach or in the alleyways, and though Danta wonders whether the door of the bar will open behind him with the presence of a dark haired butcher, he doesn't stick around to see.

Raking his fair hair back from his face and waiting until he's rounded a corner so as to be out of sight, only then does the Maverick slouch against the wall on one shoulder, rubbing at his eyes and taking a few deep and shuddering breaths to try and get to grips with it all. He's too drunk and too high at this point to be able to pick out more than the colour of Flora's eyes as they'd filled with tears or the teal of Asta's shirt across the bar, but fuck if the Doubletake's remarks don't cut across his mind again.

Danta, Asta loves you is the sort of thing that makes him want to laugh or choke, the words themselves seeming utterly ridiculous no matter how deeply the feelings that run beneath them might go. Perhaps he should just go back to The Hanged Man and laugh it off? Yeah, that might work. Straightening up and wobbling back around the corner, he fully intends to march back up towards the doors.

Dantalion

// of moments far too troubling to recall //

// 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.

Astaroth

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

// there's shadows on the walls //

"Fuck-- gods, Asta," Danta blurts out as he walks all but headlong into the other man, stumbling back and only staying on his feet thanks to the butcher's guiding hands. "I didn't know you were so close," he apologises, more or less, still swaying a bit and hiccuping in a breath before huffing it out again, avoiding looking him in the face as if his life depends on it. Does that comment have a double meaning? Who the fuck knows at this point? "I mean, I was gonna see if..."

See what, exactly? See if he could avoid things for another few seasons by throwing himself into an apology to Flora? In his inebriation he can't even recall what had happened to make her march up and make her announcements, but he's got the dark, gut feeling that it's his fault, in part if not entirely. Swallowing and wondering briefly if he'd feel better if he threw up, the thought vanishes as he notices - really notices - the heat of the other man's hands on him.

"Asta, what the fuck?" he mutters.

Dantalion

// of moments far too troubling to recall //

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

“I didn’t know where you went.” He admits, because it hadn’t been intentional to run back into the Maverick as he walked around the corner. Cocking his head to hear the follow up, though, a frown blooms on his face and he shakes his head a little, because he’s positive she’s probably locked it or might continue to cry and spark awkward sensations the butcher can’t place in this state.

He should feel bad. And he does.

But he also feels freer.

Especially as his dark gaze, made black in the dark of night focuses on Danta’s face, his warm hands gently holding him from swaying too much. “I don’t know.” He admits in a soft whisper, before his hands lower and smooth down Danta’s arms, exhaling a sigh, before thinking better of pulling his hands away. In the same movement, his mind continues to work, even as the barriers to keep them locked behind his too sharp teeth grow paper thin. “I do not want to cage you.” He admits in another whisper.

Astaroth

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

// there's shadows on the walls //

"I was just..." He gestures vaguely around the corner to the wall he'd been leaning on. Just y'know... hangin' around. It would be funny if not for the past few minutes ringing around his head. Trying to keep his feet steady despite the snapdragon still crackling its rhythm through his veins and the alcohol fighting against it, Danta swallows hard and closes his eyes. Just an hour before he'd have burned The Hanged Man down to have this, he realises, to stand in the dark with the butcher's full attention, and now that he's got it, he's failing himself all over again.

Reaching out to let his fingers fuss at the exquisitely patterned buttons of the other man's shirt, it's with an almost defeated laugh that his eyes open, and he totters forward, all but melting against Asta's chest. "Everythin' Flora said about me was true," he mumbles, almost guilty in the admission. "Sorry."

Dantalion

// of moments far too troubling to recall //

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

Eyes focus on Danta, as hazy as his focus is, the hands reach out to fuss over patterned buttons in his vest and teal shirt, before finally some pieces start to slot in. The second Danta melts against his chest, the awkward raging feeling within him starts to settle, smoothing over as his arms wind around the Maverick in turn. The guilty admission is his only focus, and his has his arms tightening a hint more around him.

Nuzzling into fair hair and completely ignoring the diamond horns that threaten to tear at his cheek, he exhales a slow sound. “For me, as well.” He admits in a huff, before he can think better of it. “I am sorry that it’s me.” Danta’s tormentor, the butcher of Whitebrim, trapping the Maverick with feelings they both have zero idea how to navigate or even where to start.

“I understand if you wish to have space.” He says, starting to withdraw a little, figuring it may be a repeat of when they’d gotten too close in Levinsward. His grip loosens around the blonde, his tail hung low, sweeping over the stone path as if already prepared for the dejection of feelings he only finally can find a name for.

Astaroth

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

// there's shadows on the walls //

For me, as well.

Part of Danta wonders if this would be enough for the Doubletake, half expecting the doors to The Hanged Man to swing open to reveal Flora in all her terrifying glory, yelling SAY IT as if this in itself isn't enough for one night. 

The rest of the Maverick, blessedly, is actually focused on the man before him, and his arms slip around Asta with the sort of care reserved for delicate and fragile things, because gods if that's not how Danta feels right now. Inhaling the honey-smoke scent of the butcher and leaning further into his embrace, the Maverick's laugh almost hiccups out of him.

"Why?" he whispers. "It couldn't be anyone else."

Letting a hand sneak up between them to brush his fingers across Asta's jaw, Danta risks a glance up at the other man at last. "I don't want space," he continues, as if realising it for the first time. The Levinsward had been too much, too soon, too close, but here? After all that has happened and with the truth ripped out of them?

Space is the last thing he wants.

Clutching Asta closer even as he makes as if to step away, Danta leans up to press his forehead against the butcher's, his fingers sneaking into his dark hair. "Gods, say you'll stay with me," he whispers.

Dantalion

// of moments far too troubling to recall //

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

The last thing he expects is the hiccuped laugh, the way it bubbles out of the Maverick like it was uh an obvious, easy thing. That the butcher didn’t tear himself up over feeling like these feelings were misplaced. How could he not? He’s never experienced them before. There was the occasional lust, the very often bloodlust, and the rage of the butcher.

That’s all he knows. The rest of it is an awkward amalgamation of a creature blooming in his gut and chest that he can’t douse out, that he can’t figure out why it hurts when Danta turns him away.

“It couldn’t be anyone else.”

Sure it could. And he’s about to say as much, given the proclivities that Danta gets up to, but they die on his tongue with the way Danta keeps him close. His fingers twitch against the loose fabric of the other Ancient’s shirt, warmth blooming across his jaw as the Maverick grasps it gently. He exhales a stuttery breath to hear that space is not wanted, before their foreheads press against each others.

The admission has him closing his eyes, arms sweeping around him tighter, nose angling in to brush against the blondes. “I cannot imagine anywhere else I’d rather be.” He admits softly, as close to a you’re fucking stuck with me as he can get without saying such colorful words. “I will stay with you.” He dives in, then, drunk and suddenly so emotionally tired, pressing his lips to Danta’s as if to seal the deal.

Astaroth

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

// there's shadows on the walls //

"Good - I'll hold you to that," Danta mumbles, his voice unexpectedly tight with emotion before his lips are stolen in a kiss, and gods but he's never been more grateful to the butcher for it. Moaning something soft and relieved into the other man's mouth, his arms curl around Asta more tightly, fingers teasing in his hair and pressing against his back as if every small movement might bring them somehow closer together.

He kisses him until his breath burns in his throat, until the star-specked skies above are nothing to the constellations that dance behind his eyes, and it's with a gasp that Danta is forced to part from the other man as if it's a surprise. "Fuck," he whispers, and apparently that's all he needs before leaning in to kiss him again, desperate and needy and unapologetic about it, however much he has the booze and snapdragon to thank.

By the time he parts from Asta a second time, Danta has drawn them against one of the walls where the butcher can, for a lack of better word, cage him in, and he's breathless and smiling with it as his hands run down the front of the taller Ancient's shirt and waistcoat. "You're in no state for the things I want to do to you," he mutters, likely knowing better than Asta knows himself that he hasn't yet done anything about his bloodlust (and was that not a fucking indication of your feelings, Danta, you dumbass?). "But gods if I want to do them anyway."

Dantalion

// of moments far too troubling to recall //

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

“Good.” Astaroth hums softly, before their lips meet and Danta is pulling him closer and it’s quite possibly the most relieving sensation he’s felt so far. His stomach soothes, calms, alight with a fiery warmth that he embraces rather than shies away from. The kiss goes on until his lungs ache, pulling back with a lungful of air through the panting before they’re pressed together again.

Suddenly finding himself boxing the Maverick in, arms braced against the wall and his body — in the tight fitting clothes and vest — press against Danta’s as his one hand lifts to brush along the blonde’s jaw, threading through blonde locks as he brushes it back out of his face. That warmth still blooms within him, painting his cheeks in a reddish hue, and he works to try and catch his breath when the other Ancient speaks.

He’s pulled back enough to let Danta’s hands run down the front of his shirt, his head cocking slightly to the side as the moon casts a faint shadow of his horns across the Maverick’s face. “You’re right, but…” He trails off for a moment, getting the train of thought back on track, diving in to press a softer kiss to his pulse, teeth well hidden from coming close to breaking skin. “Maybe a deer would suffice.” Or a ramphire, or whatever else was here in the tropical region. “Or maybe we try it anyway?” Comes the lower, heated whisper, nose pressing against Danta’s jaw before he withdraws to scan the other Ancient’s face.

Astaroth

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

// there's shadows on the walls //

Drunk and in love is a new combination for the Maverick, and it's proving to be a potent and reckless feeling, one that has him smiling stupidly against the kiss Asta presses to the side of his neck, his hand dancing along the fabric of his shirt before clasping his waist once more. "Asta," he rumbles, the other man's name caught between a whine and a warning, and he tightens his fingers in the back of his dark hair. "I'm nowhere near sober enough to say no to you," he informs him. "But I love you too much to let you fuck up that badly."

The words spill from his lips too quickly, as if he might be able to give himself plausible deniability against having said them at all, and he leans up to steal another kiss from the butcher as if that might suitably distract him as well. "Let's find somewhere to stay and figure it out from there," he suggests, though in reality he'd have taken this alleyway and called it good if it worked for the other man.

Unable to move without having to physically slip out of the butcher's grip, Danta presses himself far too close to Asta and his teeth to duck beneath the cage of his arms, only to reach out and catch him by the wrist to draw him along behind him.

Dantalion

// of moments far too troubling to recall //

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

Drawing up to focus on the Maverick, the butcher’s tongue swipes out against his lips, eyes dark as he scans Danta when he speaks. The whine and warning sparking a sharp sort of twist in his gut, one that has him boxing in the other man a little tighter. At least, until the I love you too much falls from his lips, stilling him, numbing him, because he doesn’t know what to do with the feeling other than let his cheeks flush a hint darker.

Too drunk to really say anything, especially with the kiss that silences him, and he presses back into it with a new kind of zeal, tail moving to brush against Danta’s side. “Mm, alright.” He agrees, unable to stop Danta from ducking under his arm. He isn’t left without touch for long, not as the hand clasps around his wrist and he’s tugged along, wiggling his arm a little so that he might be able to clasp Danta’s hand with his own. Little gestures he’d refrain from if he weren’t so inebriated.

“Maybe the Inn has a… room?” He suggests, squinting up at the star flecked sky, before he looks to Danta abruptly. “Where is it?” It’s already been established he isn’t good with geography, and the look he flashes over toward the blonde is as apologetic as it is slightly embarrassed.

Astaroth

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

// there's shadows on the walls //

"I would hope so," Danta mumbles, of inns having rooms in general, but he's distracted by the sudden clasp of a hand around his own, of warm, calloused fingers and the way they have his heart jumping into his throat. "This way, I think." He's only average at navigating them around himself, but at least he knows his east from his west, the Maverick tugging Asta along with him as he hangs a sharp left to draw them deeper into Haulani.

There are a handful of people out here, some snoozing in doorways because they're too drunk to get home or unlock the door, others still arm in arm, marching down towards the beach, but the inn they'd stayed at previously soon comes upon them, all muted lights and flowers blooming along its windowsills.

To say that Danta totters into the building isn't entirely wrong - the cold air has hit him like a brick wall, and he offers a very lopsided smile to the receptionist as he asks if there are any rooms available. There's one, as it happens, but it's the most expensive one, and Danta doesn't know what he says (charge it to the Hollowed Grounds, he thinks), but the key is soon in his free hand so they can ferry them onwards. "There are stairs," he hisses, as if they've just come upon a monster to fight.

Dantalion

// of moments far too troubling to recall //

// 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.

Astaroth

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