hold me tight or don't

// there's shadows on the walls //

Letting one hand brace against Asta's chest as he takes him completely, Danta's fingers splay as if to keep himself steady at the same time as he prevents the other man from going too hard or too fast; his hands might be bound, but the Maverick isn't foolish enough to think that he's going to have an easy ride. (He hopes he doesn't, in fact). Dropping his free hand - not that he needs to, as it happens - he's just rolling his hips in a too-slow rhythm when something slaps his ass, and the way he jumps has a curl of surprise and pleasure thrumming through his body enough to drag a moan from hips.

"Asta?" He pants, brows furrowed for just long enough to realise he doesn't care right now, and if the butcher wants to keep up this new brand of bullshit, he's more than entitled to. In the meantime, with a suspiciously spade shaped welt against his ass cheek, Danta picks up the pace into something less teasing and more taking. "Fuck," he hisses again, thinking nothing, apparently, of lifting his thumb to prick the pad of it with his fangs, reaching out to smear the blood in a vertical line across Asta's lips.

Dantalion

// of moments far too troubling to recall //

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

Oh it isn’t going to be an easy ride, because while he doesn’t have access to his hands, his legs are free and the rest of his body — despite being lithe and thin — is toned enough to be able to utilize his muscles with surprising ease. Then, there’s the newly realized addition of being able to hands free utilize his shadow, something he hasn’t quite realized just yet in the mixture of pleasure the Maverick brings.

It’s taunting and slow, a tease to start before the slap echoes in the quiet room. He can feel the stutter and pause, his tail flicking idly against the Maverick’s chest still, before the moan rocks a shiver through the butcher’s spine. “Mm?” He asks, blinking as if to try and regain some of his senses rather than the two blinding ones flickering at either side of his vision.

The pace picks up before he can really understand what’s happening, though, and it’s with a moan that breaks from him that he can see the shadow warbling against the Maverick in spaces that it shouldn’t be. It’s one that continues, though, because as the Maverick’s thumb swipes across his lips, iron fills his senses once more, and the shadow cast by his horns start to rise, as if to give an appearance of four prongs rather than just the two.

His hips buck against Danta’s, hands tugging at the bindings again as his tongue swipes out, seeking the pad of the other man’s thumb to encourage it closer — though the both of them know that if the Maverick gives in, he might lose the digit.

Astaroth

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

// there's shadows on the walls //

Purposely moving his bleeding hand out of reach - and gods if they'd been sober or been able to plan and think about this, maybe Danta would have gotten some healing water from the fountain - it's with a dark smile that the Maverick rocks his hips against Asta's, meeting every roll and thrust and biting back the moan that threatens to paint the air. He barely notices the stirring shadow again until he glances down at the butcher's face, but in this light and in his current headspace, he might be imagining it.

It wouldn't matter either way, not unless the shadow has any intention of making things more difficult, and as the butcher's hips rise sharply enough to finally drag a curse from his lips, Danta is reaching down to stroke his own cock, increasing his pace and biting at the inside of his cheek. It's not enough to draw blood, not yet, and besides, he's got no intention of putting his lips anywhere near Asta's right now.

A shame, honestly. He very much enjoys the taste of him.

Dantalion

// of moments far too troubling to recall //

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

It moves out of his reach and there’s a hiss of frustration to meet it, more creaking of the leather that binds his hands. The horns remain on display, a menacing view as he gasps his pleasure. The shadows continue to warble and move, his spaded tail that now winds around Danta’s hips casts a shadow across his back, applying a bit of pressure as well as a matching smack on the other side of his ass for emphasis.

His hips continue to rock into the pace Danta sets, increasing the closer to that edge he gets — it’s been a while, to say the least, and the scent of blood that continues to invade his senses, smeared a violet hue against his cheek, is a siren song for the butcher. “Danta,” he half purrs half growls, trying to adjust his head between his arms, slicing this time rather than leaving the pink line against his arm. Blood bubbles to the surface, a drip starting to run down his arm that only spurs him on. “Gods, please.” He doesn’t know what he’s asking for, really, but between all of the senses heightened and the wiggling, warbling shadows, the butcher seems like he’s ready to combust.

So maybe it’s a warning, because the idea of breaking a wrist to get out of the binds to pin him down becomes more and more enticing as the seconds tick on.

Astaroth

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

// there's shadows on the walls //

Asta isn't the only one hanging on by a thread - twisting as if to try and understand the pressure around him caused by the butcher's shadow, Danta soon decides that he doesn't care as long as it keeps feeling good, the Maverick forced to arch forward a little to grasp his hand against the leather belt, as if to keep the other man down even as things rapidly start to slip out of either of their control. "Gods, I'm so fucking close," he hisses, his hips and thighs protesting at the brutal pace, but he can't find it in him to care.

Taken almost by surprise by the lance of pleasure that thunders through him, despite his prior warnings Danta is utterly lost in it, and it's Asta's name that rings off the walls of the room as he cums. Seized by the reckless bliss of his own climax, the Maverick bites hard enough at the inside of his cheek and against his lower lip to have blood instantly springing to the surface, dripping freely down onto the other man, and fuck, if he thought he'd keep his tongue, he'd have already been kissing him.

Dantalion

// of moments far too troubling to recall //

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

If he had half a mind to speak, he’d agree with Danta on that sentiment. But words fail him as he gasps, shivering in delight, each option he has to apply pressure is second nature, as if Danta might slip away if he doesn’t try and keep as tight of a hold.

He’s jostled with a groan as the Maverick grabs onto the leather belt, his hips stuttering just enough in the pace to feel Danta hover above him. Warmth spreads along his chest, body tingling in white static from his heels up his legs, his arms numb from how tight he’d pressed against the bindings. Eyes blink open, heavily lidded to see the blonde above him, bathed in pale moonlight, glinting and reflecting from diamond horns in cool hues of rainbows that spark against the canopy. He looks ethereal, like a god rising and falling above him with each snap of his hips.

All thoughts of poetics vanish the second the blood drips from his lips — paired with the blood dripping down his arm. Twisting just enough to try and let it fall onto his face, the butcher’s body twitches hard. Growls and groans escape him, a touch of primal fierceness in how the tension blooms and breaks with another buck of his hips, thrusting deeply into the Maverick as every bit of his resolve crumbles. Curses, mixed with Danta’s name (both the nickname and the full length of it) drip from his lips as he cums, rocking through the waves of pleasure as his shadows waver with the release of his climax, chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath.

Astaroth

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

// there's shadows on the walls //

It somehow feels violent between them, the force of their shared orgasm, and perhaps it has something to do with Asta's hands being so tightly bound or the heavy scent of blood on the air. Regardless, Danta can only brace against the snap of the butcher's hips and the crest of his climax, panting heavily around the irresistible taste of iron and the blood he knows is continuing to drip at a steady pace anywhere from Asta's throat up to his lips and cheeks.

It could be seconds or minutes that pass after that point - Danta has no idea, honestly - but by the time he sits back and releases his grip around the bindings that still hold Asta in place, his own fingers are numb and tingling. "Gods," he whispers, feeling suddenly shaky with the comedown of it all. "Fuck, Asta. Are you good?" He's dazed as he glances up at the other man, wondering whether he's going to need to make a very swift exit indeed.

"I can go and see if the reception's got a stash of water," he suggests. Anything not to have blood flowing so freely between them. "Or I can let you head out..." Which isn't the ideal, honestly, given that they are in someone else's region and he doesn't trust Asta not to go for a person rather than some less enticing prey.

Dantalion

// of moments far too troubling to recall //

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

It is violent, between the blood hanging in the air, dripping from a wound the butcher doesn’t even realize he has with the force of it and the relief of the tension that had built. The pain doesn’t exist, just the tingling nature of his hands and wrists creased white with the cut off circulation of the bindings. Blood splatters along his throat, darkening his already dark beard, droplets running down in little streams along his cheeks.

Gods and what the view above him, too, bathed in moonlight, washing the scene in hues of navy blue and violet, a far away look in the Maverick’s darkened eyes that begins to shift, to come to. The butcher can’t relate, not even as he’s released and Danta’s voice reaches him. It sounds hollow, the way the whisper rings in his ears. The far away look in Asta’s own gaze is still there, and it’s that same, deep, throaty Whitebrim tone that he speaks when he answers a belated “yes.”

Is it true? Not really. Is it a lie? Also not really.

He nods to the suggestion of the water and shakes his head surprisingly quickly and succinctly at the offer of heading out as well. He doesn’t trust himself not to make any situations with Torchline and Flora worse. So for the split second he seems docile and calm, dazed in the face of his orgasm, until the bloodlust starts to creep in tenfold and the muscles work in his jaw, feathering in the moonlight before he starts to pull much harder on the bindings. The leather creaks and a tendon in his wrist pops, uncaring if he has to break the belt to get out of being restrained (in fact, he hopes for it, as the predator starts to overcome his senses surrounded by all the blood).

And all the while, there’s pressure still around Danta’s middle and his hips, his tail trying to keep him there even as he tries to work his way out of the bindings. It’s a dangerous line to ride for the blonde and it’s clear that the butcher is starting to lose the fight of patience. And rather than be docile and tame, he’s been pushed a bit too far, and the Maverick would see the warning signs like a dog about to bite.

Astaroth

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

// there's shadows on the walls //

Feeling at first as though they might just make it, Danta's shoulders relax a little, and he nods his understanding at Asta's response. "Alright, well I won't be--" Long, he means to say, only to feel the pressure around his waist and hips from the suddenly opinionated shadow the butcher possesses. And that's before the other signs that Asta's senses are rapidly unspooling, and Danta has to inhale a sharp breath to bring himself around. "Hey," he snaps, shoving down hard against the other man's chest.

"Enough of that." He has no idea how effective anything he says will be against the fight the butcher is rapidly losing, but he has no intention of letting Asta break his wrists against the restraints. (That's the thing about intention though, huh - it's not reality). "I will get that water, and I will take you out myself."

Shifting to break free of the shadows that STR 5 tho and slipping off the bed to drag his pants back on, he's still very covered in blood - and freely bleeding, too - so it's probably best he takes himself out of the other man's sight. "Just a few more minutes. I promise."

He knows the butcher doesn't have a flighted shift, and being at the top of the inn might (might?) keep him in the room - either way, Danta has to go now. So he slips out of the room (and locks the damned door), fully intending to only be gone for a couple minutes at most.

Dantalion

// of moments far too troubling to recall //

// go get your gun, get your gun //

Hey means absolutely jack shit in comparison to the thoughts invading his mind. The shove doesn’t even get him to come out of it. It does jostle his hands with a sting of pain that breaks through to him, but it sparks a hissing sound and a snap of his teeth, echoing into the too quiet room. His heartbeat continues to thunder, snarling a sound as the blonde starts to stand and get up.

Without the pressure around his lower half, his legs move to try and gain some amount of movement, trying to pull himself out of the binds. Danta’s gone in a flash, though, and the locks sound like dull ringing bells as the butcher very much does not stay put.

Fire lashes out and burns through the leather, leaving the tied portion hanging onto the bed, dark eyes looking glancing around to take in the space. There’s a patio, but they’re quite high up and while he was okay with breaking a wrist to get to the Maverick, he’d already had him right there. Now, with nothing immediately in sight, he opts to keep his limbs and wrists intact.

So, slinking off the bed, he looks to the door with a surprising amount of locks, before his shape shifts to that of the fyrhund. The canine prowls toward the door, doing a shit job at blending in with the dark room with the cracks of orange and his own orange gaze that stares at it in anticipation. He slinks over to the side of it, body filling with tension as he effectively hides behind where the door would open, trying to draw Danta in further once he returns so that the butcher can hunt him.

Astaroth

// and lets find out what it does //

// there's shadows on the walls //

Luckily for Danta, the inn does have a stash of fountain water, and he's able to make something up (he doesn't even remember what) to get some. Taking a long drink of it and dousing himself on the way back to the room, he's able to heal his minor injuries and wash off the vast majority of the blood, with enough left over to take care of Asta's arm. Swiftly unlocking the door, he only has to so much as creak it open to see the bed - and how very empty it is.

"For fuck's sake--" He's already hissing the words, eyes darting around as he slips into the room, tail lashing as he lets the door fall shut. Only a glimmer of fiery orange is enough to get the Maverick moving, and without thinking (thanks Charlie!) he Dart!s a foot away. It likely won't do much, but it might at least persuade the ravenous fyrhund not to jump straight at him.

"Asta," he's warning in a low voice, knocking over a plush chair to try and keep something - anything - between them. "Asta, you don't want to do this. Come on."

Dantalion

// of moments far too troubling to recall //

// go get your gun, get your gun //

The door opens then closes, he can hear the curse that slips from the Maverick’s lips, sees the lashing tail, and the butcher sinks low to prowl after the other Ancient. He’s spotted before he hopes to be, likely thanks to Danta’s senses and probably the fact that the orange of his shift sticks out like a sore thumb amongst the hues of blues and purples in the already too dark room.

The Maverick suddenly Darts! and the butcher springs after him, claws clicking against the smooth wood floor as a snarl slips from his maw, smokey and ashen as the plush chair falls between them. Lunging on top of it, it’s an unsteady place to hop off, but in the frenzy of the bloodlust and the shift he tries it anyway.

Jaws parted, he snags at the blonde’s leg. The lunge, had it been on a normal surface, might have propelled him perfectly into the Maverick’s side, but with the way it’s an off balance send off, the fyrhund only manages to snap his jaws at the soft flesh of his calf, feet scrambling to try and regain the balance beneath him to keep pushing on.

Astaroth

// and lets find out what it does //

// there's shadows on the walls //

A fyrhund is a big fucking dog to have pouncing around a single room, Danta can tell you that for nothing all of a sudden. As such, however quick he wants to try and be, even with his Dart ability, there's only so many places for him to go. Tripping over any number of items of clothing is a very bad move, but it's what the (still inebriated, in his defence) Maverick does, and he goes down hard at the same time as the fyrhund's jaws close around his leg.

Grating out a curse and resisting the urge to kick at the canine's rocky skull - it'll likely only tear the muscle in his calf more, and it won't work besides - Danta realises the only option available to him with a cold slosh of guilt in his stomach. "For fuck's sake," he hisses, and whilst he's glaring at Asta, there's some form of apology in the expression, before he's also shifting.

His form grows smaller, however, and the flask of fountain water hits the wooden floor as Danta slips away, clad in the dark feathers and gnarled talons of a gore crow. With one foot tucked up from the injury, Danta nonetheless spreads his black wings wide and parts his beak to caw at the fyrhund, trying to hop up enough to get airborne and perch on the dresser.

Dantalion

// of moments far too troubling to recall //

// go get your gun, get your gun //

Relief swells in the butcher’s gut as his jaw closes around Danta’s leg, and seeing as he’s still relatively inebriated, there’s a heartbeat of a second where it takes him to realize he’s managed to succeed. A victorious growl slips from his lips as the other Ancient goes down, but before he has a chance to actually relish in the win, there’s a sudden change.

No longer do his teeth sink into pale warm flesh. No, instead, in the moonlit pool of light, there’s no longer a deliciously handsome figure but the true terror of his nightmares and dreams. Adrenaline spikes through his gut as orange eyes open a bit wider, the fyrhund’s ears flying back flat to his skull, and he scrambles with a high pitched whine and a yelp, as if in pain.

Backing up to where his tail and haunches hit the chair that had been knocked over, the butcher’s eyes never leave the gore crow even as his body language immediately changes into something of fear. Of pain. Like he can feel the sharp talons and beaks tearing through his flesh again at the mere sight.

It shakes him out of the bloodlust, at least, but it keeps him in that canine shift, another whine escaping his throat as he dives under the bed like it’s a makeshift den, tense and curled against the back of it to make sure he has full view of every angle to get underneath it, a slight tremble in his bones.

Astaroth

// and lets find out what it does //