hold me tight or don't

// there's shadows on the walls //

Regretting it as soon as he's done it, Danta nonetheless keeps his wings for long enough to know that he's rattled the sense back into the butcher - or at the very least doused the bloodlust with sheer terror - rufflling his feathers to make himself as large as possible. Clacking his curved beak and shaking himself off once the fyrhund has scrambled beneath the bed (a feat Danta will find impressive shortly, given the size of the canine) he slowly shifts himself back and climbs down from the dresser, hissing at the blood pumping from the wounds in his calf.

Luckily there's still enough water on hand to deal with it, the Maverick easing himself to sit down on the ground as he cleans and heals the bite, leaning back on one hand and breathing heavily, the adrenaline still singing through his blood. "I'm sorry," he pants when he thinks he has breath enough for it, glancing across to the dark space beneath the bed. "I always swore I'd never use that shift against you. But I think we both know you would've killed me just then."

Raking bloody fingers back through his hair and only then realising that he's covered in fresh streaks of crimson, Danta lets out a long sigh. "I think I'd better shower before being around you. You don't... you can stay where you feel safest," he says, climbing to his feet.

Dantalion

// of moments far too troubling to recall //

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

It is impressive — but only because it results in the volcanic beast to be as flat and small as possible beneath the bed. His back presses up against the metal springs under the bed, each tremble that racks through him shaking the bed in the process.

It’s a long few moments before orange eyes spot the pale hand reach for the canteen of water. He doesn’t make any move, though, the butcher barely breathes. He warily watches the movements of water covering the wound, of blood melting with the liquid into essentially nothing.

He still doesn't move when Danta’s apologies fill the air, simply responding with a quieter whine. He stays exactly where he is when the Maverick moves to slip away into the shower, and he waits long enough to ensure the blonde is gone before he slinks out the other side, toward the balcony. He shifts back into himself, snagging a fur blanket from the bed. He wraps himself in it, opening the door to the balcony to slip into a chair, to curl up and soothe his racing heartbeat, hand in his hair to prop up his head in the picture perfect image of stress.

And he waits.

Astaroth

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

// there's shadows on the walls //

Danta showers for perhaps longer than necessary, but then Asta isn't the only one stressed if not for very different reasons, and the Maverick wants to give them both as long as possible before returning. When he does emerge from the bathroom, it's with steam curling at his feet, a towel slung low on his hips and his damp hair already starting to dry around his shoulders. Instinctively he tries to peer beneath the bed, but the flutter of the balcony curtains shows Asta curled in the chair outside.

Quietly clearing his throat as if to make the other man aware of his presence, Danta slips out into the cool night air, keeping himself square on with the butcher as much as he can; he doubts his presence at his back or around his shoulders would be all that appreciated right now. So instead he shifts to kneel down by his chair, hesitantly reaching out a hand to brush it against the plush fur of the blanket and the body beneath.

"I'm sorry," he repeats. "Is there anything I can do? I can go, if that would be easier on you...?"

Dantalion

// of moments far too troubling to recall //

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

He remains there as long as it takes, the wound on his arm dried and scabbed now, the warmth of the wound cooling with the cold breeze that filters by. He listens to the dull roar of the ocean nearby, only to tense up the second that Danta clears his throat. It’s almost imperceptible and could easily be ignored by the way his hand rakes through his hair, pushing back the black locks out of his face as he keeps his dark gaze focused on a far off light that seems to flicker in the distance.

The hand that brushes along the plush blanket has him clearing his throat finally, head dropping to look down at the Maverick, hand in his hair falling forward to brush against his mouth still splattered red. “Stay.” He whispers, pleads. “I am sorry too.” Comes the quieter admission, his tail curling around his leg under the blanket, trying to keep himself still just as small as possible. His gaze drifts away, then, swallowing hard.

Astaroth

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

// there's shadows on the walls //

"Okay," Danta says easily, not hiding the relief that floods his voice as Asta tells him to stay. "But you don't have anything to apologise for. We were both stupid for doing this, but it's not like you were in control of yourself just now." Sighing deeply and wanting nothing more than to drape himself around the butcher, it's a startling realisation for Danta to be the thing to have caused this sort of reaction. "Do you want to stay out here for a bit?" he asks - rather than going back into the room, he means.

"I can get some water to clean you up. I... well, I used all of the stuff from the fountain." A necessity, he'd thought at the time. Shifting to rise back to his feet, Danta adjusts the towel around his waist and and ruffles his hair back out of his face. He wants to reach for Asta, schooling himself into leaving the choice up to the other man, however keenly he feels the urge.

Dantalion

// of moments far too troubling to recall //

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

“You did what you had to do.” He says with a quiet murmur of resolve. He knows why Danta shifted. He doesn’t like it, but he understands. The truth is there, in the blood Danta had washed off, the long shower and moments of terror that had broken him from the spell. Nodding slowly to the mention of staying out here, his leg curls in a bit tighter, hand dropping to rest on the arm rest of the chair to let the scabbed scratch cool down again with the night air.

Settling into the chair a bit easier as Danta stands up, he tries to break through the fog of his mind. “If you want to.” He says with a quiet amount of resolve. He can tell that the Maverick hesitates, and it takes a few seconds before the butcher unfolds somewhat, the blanket falling from a shoulder while he tilts his head toward the other Ancient. A lick of fire sparks and swirls up Danta’s arm toward his face, a gentle caress against his cheek in a touchless embrace, before it sparks away into nothing.

Astaroth

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

// there's shadows on the walls //

"I want to," Danta assures him, tilting his head at the lick of fire before letting a smile curl across his lips. Responding in kind with a touch of flame that caresses the butcher's cheek and lips, the Maverick disappears once more into the darkened room. A room that grows warmer and more comfortable as his fire fills the lamps and sconces, and Danta takes some time to clean up a bit; at least when Asta steps back in, there won't be a half-scorched belt tied to the headboard or blood all over the floor, and the chairs will all be upright.

With that done, a quick trip into the bathroom has him returning with a basin of water and some clean cloths, the liquid already starting to simmer and bubble from the heat of his fire magic. "Okay, hold still," he murmurs. He knows the butcher hasn't been injured beyond the cut to his arm caused by the points of his own horns, but even so, he takes care with the cloth soaked in the hot water, cleaning away the blood from his mouth, his hands, his cheeks and throat, only sitting back when he's satisfied.

"There," he says with a quiet smile. "Good as new."

Dantalion

// of moments far too troubling to recall //

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

A slow nod is given from the butcher with the answer, humming quietly to say he’s heard him — but the lick of flame that meets him in turn against his cheek and lips has his head tilting into the warmth, exhaling a shivery sigh when it’s gone.

He trudges in later, immediately moving toward the bed to sit on the edge of it and make it easier for the Maverick to clean him up. The blanket drops around him, his posture not at all the prim and proper version it was typically. Light from the sconces and lamps, the flickering flame reflecting off of his face and body. It’s with a quiet, tired resolve that the butcher lets Danta clean him up — not before flinching at the initial touch. He relaxes a second later, swallowing hard and shifting wherever the blonde needs him to.

Warm water relaxes him and as he settles a bit easier, the butcher’s gaze finally lifts to his face. “How is your leg?” He asks, voice quiet, scanning his face with a different kind of intensity as if to make sure he’s actually okay and not lying.

It had been a relatively hard bite.

Astaroth

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

// there's shadows on the walls //

Squeezing the bloody water into the basin from the cloth, Danta sets it to one side and almost seems as if he's about to retreat to one of the chairs to give Asta his space when his question hits the air. "Hm? Oh, it'll leave a helluva bruise," he says, though his tone suggests he's more proud than anything. Rising to his feet, he turns to show the butcher the darkening mark along the skin of his calf, guaranteed to bruise in a rainbow of colours in the shape of a fyrhund's jaws.

"Thanks for not biting a chunk out of my leg," he adds with a quick smile. "I feel like that would have been much more difficult to heal." And then some - and it had been a close thing, too, based on the state of Asta at the time. Letting out a long sigh and finding himself standing before the other man, Danta finally can't stop himself from stepping forward to reach for him, letting warm arms slip around him to draw him close.

"I never want to do that again," he mutters. As far as dangerous lines go, this one was too far, no matter the admissions made to one another.

Dantalion

// of moments far too troubling to recall //

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

There might be pride that lingers in Danta’s tone over the bruise received but Astaroth’s gaze drops to the mark with a slight frown, muscles feathering in his jaw to see its perfect outline. “I wanted to.” He says unhelpfully, sighing and curling a bit more into himself.

He doesn’t get very far with the attempt, though, because the Maverick steps forward and wraps his arms around the butcher in a hug, his cheek pressing into Danta’s chest, swallowing hard against the tremble that threatens to shake the two of them with the force of it. His arms sluggishly lift, winding around the Maverick to pull him into his lap before he can think better of it.

“Me neither.” He says with a quiet resolve, exhaling a slow sigh through his nose, before he shakes his head surprisingly hard — like he’s trying to regain his composure. “What would you have done if I had the crow charm?” He asks in a surprisingly small voice, recalling the item he was to ask Dygra for.

Perhaps it would be better without it, just in case.

Astaroth

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

// there's shadows on the walls //

"I wanted to bite your throat out only a few weeks ago when I was in the same state, so we'll call it even," Danta suggests, only to find himself suddenly in the other man's lap. Some shred of tension snaps in his shoulders and down his spine at that, the Maverick settling and holding Asta more tightly, even as the shiver racks through his body. "Hm? I'd have kicked you in the face and commissioned a very fashionable peg leg," he tells him with a lopsided smirk, one that fades as he realises the other man is being serious.

Letting a warm hand graze across the butcher's cheek, Danta leans in to press a kiss to his dark hair, his free hand smoothing across scarred shoulders as if trying to wipe the marks away. "I would have still shifted, but I'd have flown out the window," he says easily. "And I'd have brought something back for you to eat, providing you didn't jump off the balcony." He scrunches his nose at the thought. "But I promise you wouldn't have killed me. Not after all this time."

Dantalion

// of moments far too troubling to recall //

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

It had only been a few weeks since then, hadn’t it? It feels like months, with the pace of how everything had gone, the trajectory of how their relationship had its ups and downs, and in spite of the consequences of just hours before, the butcher finds that so many things just make sense. The relaxation of the Maverick in his lap, the way his arms tighten around him, the way he clings.

Even the joke doesn’t receive a reaction other than the dull thud of his heartbeat, the slight tightening of his arms. He blinks and tries to focus when the hand touches his cheek and he leans into it belatedly, to the kiss that follows in his dark hair. Perhaps it’s the last statement that Danta makes that allows him to relax, because air escapes his lungs in a slow sigh, nodding as his posture slumps even more, like adrenaline and tension had warred to keep his back straight.

“Let’s be better prepared next time, yes?” He asks, tilting his head back to nose his way into pressing his forehead against Danta’s, like he’s making a quiet vow between them even as the wrinkles around his eyes darken with a quiet worry. “I wanted it to be a surprise, but, I have also commissioned a new kind of muzzle.” To sleep beside you so I don’t tear your throat out.

Astaroth

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

// there's shadows on the walls //

Smiling to himself and nosing into Asta's hair, Danta lets himself feel exhausted as well for a moment. The snapdragon has all but fled his system and adrenaline has sobered him up considerably, but he's still here, at least. Still alive, still in the other man's lap, still meaning all the things he's said (and the things Flora said, to be frank). "That sounds like a wise idea," he agrees, shifting to glance down at Asta just as he leans up, the Maverick relaxing further.

"Oh? Kinky," he quips, unable to help himself, even if his touches are nothing but chaste and gentle against the butcher's scar-lashed skin. "I look forward to seeing it. For tonight, though, I think I might just have to stay awake, make sure you don't have any nightmares." Or he can just hold him tight, something Danta plans to do anyway but doesn't mention it.

"And in the morning, we're going out." Hunting, to be clear, as soon as it's light enough to manage it. Then they can sleep away the rest of the day however they like.

Dantalion

// of moments far too troubling to recall //

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

Humming a note a bit louder than the whispered answers of before, the butcher shakes his head a little with a soft sigh of both exasperation and exhaustion as Danta can’t help himself. It isn’t him that swats at the Maverick, but the shadow that warbles from the flickering fire. The touches otherwise from the blonde are gentle and soft.

It lulls him enough to feel less on edge. “I don’t know if I will sleep.” He admits, withdrawing to let his dark gaze linger on the Maverick’s face. A hand lifts to brush his fingertips gently along his sharp cheekbone, before guiding them down to his jaw, tilting it up in a way that might force the blonde to press a kiss to his forehead with how his own head tilts down.

“Perhaps we should go sooner rather than later. I do not feel like myself.” Comes the quiet admission between them, another slight tremble drifting down his spine to his arms. It’s a lie, he feels more like the old version of himself chained up in the heat of the Climb. A feeling that leaves him raw and wholly uncomfortable.

Astaroth

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