hold me tight or don't

// there's shadows on the walls //

Grumbling and doing his best not to hinder Asta's attempts to get them up the stairs, even if he's not actively able to help much, Danta is busy muttering three to himself at each step by the time the butcher speaks again. "I dunno. Some?" he mutters, only relaxing when they finally reach a landing with a number that matches the one on the keyring he holds, allowing him to shuffle down a corridor and start trying locks until one clicks smoothly open.

They're at the top floor of the inn, naturally, and the room is bathed in soft moonlight as he steps inside to the smell of jasmine and sandalwood. His fingers slip out of Asta's if only so he can shut and lock the room behind him, by which time he's completely forgotten why they are there. Something something figure it out from there? 

He'll sure he'll remember eventually, but until then he's stepping back towards the butcher and all but melting against him in a kiss, an arm draping about his shoulders and curling into his dark hair, the other clasping his jaw as if the other man might pull away for some reason.

Dantalion

// of moments far too troubling to recall //

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

Some becomes many, and the butcher finally loosens a breath as he reaches the landing their room is on. Giving Danta’s hand a squeeze and exhaling a breath that smells far more like whiskey than smoke at the moment, he’s content to let the Maverick fumble with locks until he finds their door.

It’s an immediate invasion of senses as Danta’s hand slips from his, the blonde bathed in streams of moonlight that have him captivated with the way it shines off of diamond horns, the way it turns the usual gold of his hair into a pale white. He finds himself staring a touch too long, silent, awkwardly — suddenly wanting to fill the space with words.

Before he can get his drunk mind to figure anything out, Danta’s pressing against him. Words turn into a sigh of relief as he gives in, the hands in his hair causing him to stutter in a breath, having to consciously think about not pressing so hard into the kiss that his teeth don’t break skin. He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t even think to. Arms wrap around Danta as he walks him back, pausing in a drop of moonlight, breaking the kiss when he’s sure he can see stars. Panting and pressing his forehead against Danta’s, Astaroth tries to take a deep breath. “This is not how I anticipated tonight going.”

Astaroth

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

// there's shadows on the walls //

"Yeah? How'd you expect it to go?" Danta says with a scoff of laughter, left panting as he parts from Asta's lips to stand in the puddle of pale moonlight he's been directed into. "Personally I figured I'd end up under one of the tables in the bar passed out." And were it not for Flora's interruption he'd likely have made that a reality before too long, so he supposes he has the Doubletake to thank for a bed to sleep in as well as everything else.

With lips that want to mark the butcher's body all over and hands dying to fumble at his buttons, it's a difficult thing to reign himself in sober, let alone now, and he huffs a note of frustration as he presses his forehead against Asta's shoulder. "This is your fault," he whispers petulantly, though the hands that hold the butcher are still nothing but gentle and affectionate. "You're gonna rip my throat out tonight and it's your fault." Because his fingers are already trying to unbuckle Asta's belt, his tail swishing at his heels and coiling around the other man's calf.

Dantalion

// of moments far too troubling to recall //

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

“I don’t know. Just not… that and this.” He gestures a little unhelpfully, hard to see with how his hands are still on the Maverick. Instead, he ends up rumpling and ruffling his clothes. It’s a thought that could turn both sad and relieved, but before it has a chance to take root Danta’s comment of sleeping under a table in the bar has a soft snort leaving him.

Pulling back to lift his hands up to run through moonlit white strands, tracing along the curve of a horn as the other Ancient’s face is pressed against his shoulder, humming a note that seems to say he agrees. “I purchased you a gift to prevent that. It has not arrived yet.” He laments, shifting to better let Danta slip the belt out of the loops, before his hands are dropping to slip him out of that breezy shirt hanging off one shoulder, parting for a moment. “I don’t know if I can wait.” He whispers, nosing his way into pressing a kiss to his crown, to his temple, to his face, trying desperately to avoid his neck for the moment, even as the siren song lulls him.

“I want you.” Comes the quieter whisper, pressed to Danta’s ear. His tail winds around Danta’s leg in turn, hands spreading along the warm heat of Danta’s body, sparking fire to curl around his shoulders in a hot caress.

Astaroth

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

// there's shadows on the walls //

"You and your gifts," Danta scoffs against Asta's shoulder, the Maverick shifting enough to assist the other man in stripping him of his shirt, even as he succeeds in drawing the belt from his waist. He doesn't discard it, though - he feels like he'll need all the help he can get to pin the butcher down. 

"Oh? Then for what it's worth, it was very nice knowing you." He almost wants to laugh despite the real, cold danger of having his throat so close to Asta's teeth right now, but with enough narcotics and alcohol in his system to dull his inhibitions to nothing, not to mention the different high attached to their recent admissions, and fuck it if it's going to happen anyway.

"I want you," he fires back, his breath hitching as fire blooms across his shoulder blades, the hand not holding the belt fumbling with the buttons of his vest and then his shirt, though his lips are more interested in trying to catch Asta's, pressing into the kiss and moaning something feral and needy into his mouth.

"Do you trust me?" he whispers when they part, pushing Asta's shirt over his shoulders and nipping at his lower lip.

Dantalion

// of moments far too troubling to recall //

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

What can he say, he likes giving gifts. And as far as he knows, everyone enjoys receiving them. Who’s going to say no?

The Maverick’s shirt is slipped off, safe from the fire that blooms along shoulder blades and pale skin, washing away the pale blue with flickers of warmth and orange and heat. His lips remain at Danta’s ear, a lick of fire curling up against his ear and the butcher’s lips with the huff of laughter. “I can be good.” Vowing quietly, Asta knows it’s a bold lie.

He knows the second he breaks skin that he’ll be like a shark in the water, chasing the scent of blood.

He already starts to chase the moan that leaves him, pressing into the kiss with a fiery need. His shirt and waistcoat are unbuttoned, pushed back enough to reveal scarred skin beneath. Teeth nip at the butcher’s lower lip, sending shivers down his spine and his tail coiling tighter around Danta’s leg.

A whine escapes his lips, hands growing more possessive in how they envelop Danta’s hips and lower back, guiding the stream of fire up his spine and around his neck. “Yes.” He says it quietly, like if he were to say it too loud someone might hear.

He doesn’t trust easily, but Danta? The one person and place he feels the safest? He trusts him with his whole being.

Astaroth

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

// there's shadows on the walls //

Danta can't help but laugh at the prospect of the butcher being good; it's a quick, rough sound, and he shakes his head to the other man. "Liar," he mutters, even as Asta thinks the same thing. Not that him being anything less than himself will stop the Maverick at this point, and as fingers of fire rove across his body with every bit of possessive heat that he craves, backed up by the physical press of Asta's hands, he's heedless to ignore what his body wants.

Shifting enough only to cast their shirts aside, as Danta is able to feel the press of the other man's bare skin paired with the confirmation that he's got the butcher's trust in his hands, it takes a few moments for him to recover sense enough to do anything about it. Flush against the taller Ancient and already feeling a curl of heat low in his belly that burns brighter than any fire racing up the length of his spine, it's a clumsy thing for him to steer them towards the bed, but eventually he hopes to encourage Asta down onto it.

Dropping apologetic kisses against his lips and the side of his neck, the belt he's stolen is used to tether Asta's hands together and against one of the railings of the headboard, the Maverick's movements smooth with the ease of practice. And for once he's not smug about it either, sitting astride the other man and tilting up his jaw for a real kiss, as if to enjoy these final moments before he introduces a potentially lethal dose of chaos into the proceedings.

"Tell me if it's too much," he whispers. If you can, he might have added, before his tongue flicks up to press firmly against one of the butcher's fangs, spilling the iron tang of blood into the kiss just before Danta draws back, knowing better than to keep his face too close to those teeth.

Dantalion

// of moments far too troubling to recall //

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

Smirking against the honesty, despite how he’d said he would be good — they both know it’s likely better to take no chances. So trust is easily given, knowing in the bones of his being that they aren’t like how they once were, how handing so much over to Danta as he’s guided and the fire is extinguished in the process, his arms surprisingly don’t fight back as they’re pulled above his head, clasped together, distracted by the heat of the Maverick’s lips against his jaw and throat.

His arms are tied together against the headboard, and only as Danta’s hands start to move down along his exposed skin does Asta test the binding. It’s tight enough that he can’t get loose, his dark eyes lift to focus on the blonde as he’s straddled and a shivery sigh escapes past his lips.

As his head tilts up, he presses up into Danta’s kiss before he aims to try and respond. Only, it falls short the second that Danta’s pricking his tongue against the fang that’s notably sharper than the rest of his already sharp teeth.

It’s the tang of iron and heat, vibrant and sweet, that has him chasing after it — tilting up the best he can to shiver and groan — teeth aiming to nip and bite and claim. He doesn’t get anywhere with it aside from leaning up into the open air, with Danta (smartly) nowhere near his face. His breathing has picked up already, but the bindings hold steady.

Dark eyes focus too intensely on the Theocrat, the way that the moonlight still filters in and drapes him in silver lines, the way that he straddles his hips with confidence, the way that the darkness of the room seems to not even touch the blonde with the pool of moonlight that crosses the bed. It’s intoxicating for the butcher, the siren song of both the blood singing through him and the powerful stance Danta harbors right now. He’s in complete control, and for once the butcher doesn’t mind.

It doesn’t mean he won’t be a brat, though, because Danta’s sparked this combination of desire and bloodlust. His hips rise in a slight roll which has Asta’s breath hitching with the pressure. His voice drops lower as his Whitebrim accent slips in, surveying Danta with dark eyes made darker by the blood, the desire, and the alcohol when he says. “Indulge me, Dantalion.”

Astaroth

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

// there's shadows on the walls //

Having been expecting a lot more in terms of Asta's fight against his restraints (and that says more about you than it does him, Danta babe), the Maverick's hand has been splayed out over the other man's chest and collarbones in preparation to have to physically keep him down. Still, he holds himself motionless over the butcher, his bloody lips made black and glistening in the moonlight, until he feels as though he's not immediately in danger.

Or more accurately, when Asta's hips roll up and against him, dragging a soft and surprised moan from his throat. "If by indulge you mean fuck you, I'd be all too pleased to comply," he growls back, grinding against him and inhaling a stuttering breath as he's forced to move, if for no other reason than so he can shed them of the rest of their clothes.

He both does and doesn't intend to tease, knowing better than to tempt Asta to the point of breaking a wrist to free himself from the leather, but the urge to paint the other man's body with crimson kisses is almost too much to resist. Still, he manages to keep himself mostly on track, stepping out of his pants and unbuttoning the butcher's to tease them down around his hips, taking a minute to tug them off with his shoes before he's free to simply admire him for a moment.

Gods, look at you, he might have said, or some other trite compliment, but those aren't the sorts of men they are - not drunk as all hell and high on the moment, anyway. So instead Danta risks himself enough to stretch himself over Asta, kissing a pathway down his torso and between his hips, his destination very clear.

Dantalion

// of moments far too troubling to recall //

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

Iron invades and remains, filling Asta’s senses in a strange mixture of primal instinct and the haze of the liquor in his bones. It stays his hand, feeling the warmth radiating from Danta’s hands on his chest and collarbones, the view of the blonde above him bathed in moonlight, lips painted black until a glimmer of moonlight shines on it, painting it a deep purple that distracts him entirely. His tongue swipes out, chasing the taste with a huff of a stuttery sound as Danta’s words reach him and the slow grind of his hips.

It’s certainly working, the butcher’s body a mix between tension and brimming pleasure. His wrists still pull at the binding, but he watches through hazy dark eyes as Danta sheds the rest of his clothes and tugs his own off. His breathing stutters as the Maverick surveys him, the sound of leather moving as Danta starts to stretch over him and his arms tug again at the binding. His tail sweeps over to brush affectionately along the Maverick’s side, the cool air making each bloodied kiss spark as a pathway of intention. The blood and intentions help his body warm up, his cock filling out with each kiss that trails lower down his body.

His legs shift slightly, giving the Theocrat more room, his head tilts up and he tries to settle, closing his eyes to keep from thinking about the blood as much, though it doesn’t stop the light growl that escapes his lips, a hum of desperation that he tries to hard to hide but the alcohol places it in plain sight. A mixture of man and beast that he doesn’t know exactly how to manage, but for the moment he certainly walks that fine line.

Astaroth

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

// there's shadows on the walls //

It's perhaps unfair for Danta to force Asta to walk such a fine line in their current state, but gods if he doesn't love seeing it, the Maverick's eyes flashing up the length of the other man's body as if to savour the sight. Hopefully he'll remember it in the morning, even with how hard they'd hit the liquor.

In the meantime, it's with hands dragging lightly down the butcher's ribs and across his hips that he continues his affections, quite content to stay between his legs for now. His lips leave slow, crimson kisses against the inside of his thighs, and Asta might find it a little sudden, the way Danta's fingers suddenly grip the base of his cock and squeeze, but hopefully it keeps his attention front and centre - and away from thoughts of his jugular.

Wasting no further time on teasing, Danta takes the other man into his mouth with an almost greedy moan of satisfaction, shifting enough to kneel, to allow his free hand to dance its way back up the butcher's chest, as if to continue to hold him down if he needs to. Luckily he doesn't plan to linger here for long, and it's with a final flick of his tongue against the head of his cock that he draws himself over Asta, breathless and thoroughly wound up, though the other man can likely relate.

Dantalion

// of moments far too troubling to recall //

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

“Oh fuck,” his accent is deeper, more of that Whitebrim grit that’s lost the pleasantries, the my dears and darlings. The curse slips from him like a breeze with the sudden sharp focus Danta draws as he grips and squeezes his cock. It throbs within his hold, the butcher’s hands shifting slightly and creasing the squeaky leather again. It works in Danta’s favor though, because it certainly has his attention drifting from the sudden bloodlust onset — mostly because he’s unable to move his hands and too drunk to think of a better way to slip the restraints.

So he’s docile, as much as the sharp toothed cannibal can be. Tamed rather than domesticated. Distracted from the fine line he walks as the pendulum swings wholly into desire and lust with the warm heat of the Maverick’s mouth. More curses slip from him as his chin tilts down, scarred chest heaving as his dark gaze, black as it matches the lingering blood still on the other man’s lips.

“Are you going to take this opportunity to fuck me or ride me?” Comes the deep growl, arms shuffling as he rests his head against his arms, the horns propping his head up. He’s very wound up, to the point that either is actually perfectly fine for him in a rare occurrence — thanks to the liquor and the blood.

His tail sweeps up and presses the flat side of the spaded end against Danta’s chest, while his heartbeat in his neck thunders, half hidden by the wild hair that lays against it.

Astaroth

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

// there's shadows on the walls //

Cold blue eyes glint with the sudden thrill of a choice, Danta letting his head tilt to one side as he gazes down at the butcher. "I did say I was going to fuck you," he rumbles, nosing against the underside of Asta's jaw with the full intention of pulling away at the slightest snap of teeth. "But gods, I do always want your cock," he adds in a rough whisper, hissing in a breath and sitting himself up abruptly, hand pressing over the spaded tip of the butcher's tail against his chest as he readjusts to sit back astride the other man.

"I s'pose I should take full advantage of this view," he reasons, gazing down at Asta through hooded eyes and reaching back with his free hand to grasp his cock. He never looks away from that dark gaze as he shifts and moves, stroking his length and slowly sinking down onto it, breath stuttering in his chest. "Fuck," he hisses, his back arching deliciously into it, head tilting toward the canopy of sheets overhead.

Dantalion

// of moments far too troubling to recall //

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

His heartbeat continues to pulse as Danta noses the underside of his jaw, a whispered breath hissing out of him. “Then take it.” Comes the heavy growl, the t punctuated with that snap of teeth. But he doesn’t try to nose down for him, keeping his head angled up until he withdraws and slips down his chest and he can watch him. The Maverick’s warm hand presses against the spaded tail, keeping it pressed against Danta’s chest.

He watches through a hazy gaze as Danta watches back, his lips curling into a sharp smirk, a sharp fang revealed as his head nestled a bit more against his arms, the sharp edge of a tine scratching a pink line into the bronze of his forearm. He puts on a bit of a show, (more than he thinks) as Danta sinks down onto him and he echoes the same sentiment in a groan. Muscles tense along his chest, ribs sticking out sharply with the inhale of breath he takes. His hips rock slightly, trying to get the other Ancient to settle quicker.

Yet, in another surprise for the both of them, the moonlight casts a shadow of the spaded tail along the Maverick’s pale body. It shivers and moves, a darker strip of black as it brushes along his hip, before it rises enough to smack the Theocrat’s ass.

Astaroth

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