your fucking god complex leaks out of you

i was created at the dawn of creation, i am temptation

"Apologies for the delay," Danta croons as he leads Quentin down the dimly lit corridors of the Dusklight. "Things here have been a little slow to start what with Flowerbirth refusing to grow right." Gesturing vaguely about with a hand holding a black cigarette that smells faintly of vanilla, the Maverick shrugs and smirks over his shoulder. "Good things come to those who wait though, isn't that what they say?"

He isn't sure he subscribes to that philosophy, much more a fan of immediate gratification, but needs and seasons must and so here they inevitably are. Behind various closed doors Quentin will already be able to hear the Dusklight's best and brightest at work - gasps, moans, the crack of leather and behind one particular door, the clang of a cowbell - but the room Danta arrives at contains little more than silence for now.

"For all my complaints," he continues, grinning and setting the cigarette between his lips, "this is one of Asta's better seasons. I'd still advise you to keep your hands to yourself unless you'd like them bitten off, though." Straightening the cuffs of his shirt - a crisp white today, rolled to the elbow and paired with dark slacks and suspenders embroidered with pale yellow flowers, Danta reaches out at last to turn the doorknob, stepping into the room and gesturing for Quentin to follow.

Dantalion

i am the snake in eden, i am the reason for treason

Astaroth

// so sip the gossip, drink 'til you choke. sip the gossip, burn down your throat //

He’d agreed to do this what felt like ages ago – not that Asta is opposed to doing it now, don’t get him wrong – but it has given him plenty of time to imagine this author. Danta’s gone to fetch him, but Asta remains in the room, trying to ignore the brief undercurrent of cowbells from a room further down, adorned by the cacophony of moans and slaps of leather. It’s a better back drop than the annoying and occasional clang, and the Butcher busies himself with ensuring everything is where it should be.

Healing wine from their fountain is within arms reach – plenty of it, too, just in case. Asta knows without his haunt he’ll have to put on quite the show and had been silently charmed by the white his fiancé had departed the room with. Smoke filters in the room, creating a brief haze of cloudiness where there’s a small beam of light that filters in from up above. A light behind a box of stained glass descends the room in multiple hues, though nothing too sharp to drown out the variety of colors.

The room itself is quiet and the Butcher leans against the post of the bed, adorned in a similar fit to Danta but one that certainly screams more dark and dangerous than Danta’s own. Instead of suspenders, the Butcher wears a dark green waistcoat, paired with a cream silken shirt above it. The sleeves are carefully rolled up his arms and is left unbuttoned a fair amount to show the few long fingers of scar tissue that reach his neck and the top half of his chest. Dark pants accompany it, alongside boots, and while the Butcher doesn’t have any knives currently on his person it will become clear the second the author enters that Asta doesn’t need them with the shark tooth grin he aims their way.

It’s a touch closer to dangerous than friendly, however, and from where he leans against the post, the Butcher’s also got a cigarette, though it’s half smoked and held between two fingers, letting the smoke curl around his dark hair that’s slicked back and kept out of the way, wound around the tined antlers that sprout from his skull. The door opens, capturing his attention, a glimmer of affection lingering as he scans Danta, before it turns somewhat sharper and calculating as he regards Quentin. “Welcome in, darling.” The Butcher purrs this initial greeting as warmly as he can, though the grin he shoots the author’s way is one a touch too sharp.

// you're not iconic, you are just like them all. don't act like you don't know //

And they lived comfortably ever after, boob in hand

"No need, no need." Quentin waves away the apology with all the fierceness of someone attempting to cleanse their house. It's a returned favor of manners, as timeless as any routine swordplay coreography, whereupon insisting and denying are just the assault and defense of civility. It's also entirely because guilt is a known slugger for erections, and Quentin would hate for Dantalion to be soft over the timing of their play date.

"Mm, yes, it has been a bit nipply." The musing comes as if he hasn't considered the chill until now, Deepfrost already seeming like such an endless thing that he doesn't recount the demise of it until he's finally worked up a fine enough sweat walking down the street. Rest assured, he's sweat plenty indoors, including here several times. The cowbell shortens his stride a touch, slowing to cock an ear at the sound of it as though he might fathom its purpose like some sexual deviant of Daredevil. Unwilling to stray far from Danta's side however, his curiosity will have to sustain itself on fantasy for now.

"It is," comes the demure agreement to waiting, and Quentin nods as though they've traded some scholarly breakthrough. "Although, everyone is always saying so much, it doesn't seem worth listening to half of it." In other words, early bird gets the worm seems to counteract the waiting for good things, and Quentin rather subscribes to the former most often.

With his pewter sweatervest pulled over a pale shirt and tucked in tie, dark and casual slacks and dull loafers, Quentin's appearance is one of someone far too uptight and put together to be at all comfortable here. His expression undermines his attire, worn with the easy confidence of someone facing the familiar, even beneath a warning. If anything, the risk seems to delight the man further, his lazy excitement sparking a degree brighter in the gaze he levels on Danta. Said fingers, which are liable to be in danger, drum against the bound notebook clutched between both hands and held firmly to his chest. "Delightful," he chirps around his growing smile, and it seems he means it. "Trust I intend only to watch, and to write."

Eager to see this rough and tumble fiancé of the Maverick after all the hype surrounding him, Quentin goes on tiptoe to peer in around Danta as the door opens. Antlers are the first glimpse he catches, and soon thereafter as they step inside and the door seals behind them, Quentin is revealed the entire length of Astaroth. Well, perhaps not his entire length just yet, but certainly head (a version of one) to toe. His grin only widens, mouth popping open with the greed of inspiration. "Oh, why thank you, so kind," he murmurs gratefully in response to the greeting, swiftly claiming the offered darling for himself.

"Pleasure to meet you, my deear." He does not discourage a man who takes to pet names so swiftly as Astaroth, although he is always surprised to find how tender the tall ones can be. He moves to hold out his hand, but then seems to think better of it, not quite certain when the no-touching started, and instead awkwardly shuffles his notebook from one palm to another.

Quentin

i was created at the dawn of creation, i am temptation

"A man after my own heart," Danta croons, a hand fluttering to his chest as Quentin echoes his sentiments on things that are and are not worth listening to. Speaking of which, he approves very much of the word nipply, but before he can say as much they are stepping into the room where his rather less whimsical fiance awaits them. And when Quentin responds to the offered darling with a casual sort of ownership, Danta can't help but raise delighted eyebrows in Asta's direction, even though he doubts the other man will find it quite so amusing.

Opting to rescue his new favourite author from both awkwardness and potential removal of limbs, the Maverick sweeps in to smooch an obnoxious kiss against the Butcher's cheek, hands smoothing down the length of the green waistcoat that hugs his torso. "I trust you can set the scene for us?" He grins over his shoulder at Quentin with an arched eyebrow. "For context, of course. I cant guarantee what you'll get will be exactly as your book would like to dictate, but I don't doubt it will be inspirational."

Dantalion

i am the snake in eden, i am the reason for treason

Astaroth

// so sip the gossip, drink 'til you choke. sip the gossip, burn down your throat //

He can hear the lilt of the author’s voice alongside his fiance’s as they get closer – but it’s nothing in comparison to what he’s expecting to see when Quentin steps in. Of course, his pleasantries are on display, ever the Gentleman, after all. But the sharp twist to his smile certainly screams something more devious as the men steps in and offers a pun nonetheless. It isn’t the first time he’s heard it, nor does he expect it to be the last, and truthfully he would’ve missed it completely were it not for the extension of the ee that attributes it to his antlers, knowing fully well the author hasn’t witnessed his fierw shift.

The Butcher does not approach, however, instead he straightens out his posture a bit from where he’d been leaning against the post of the bed. “The pleasure is mine.” He says, though his tone has dropped into something a little less than impressed in a vast contradiction to Danta’s delight.

Eternally thankful for Danta’s interruption, however, Asta takes another drag from his own cigarette, exhaling the plume as his free hand winds around Danta’s middle as his hands slip down the front of his smooth waistcoat. His tail flicks intermittently, like a calculating cat as he leans in to press a chaste kiss to the crown of his head, before his attention lifts to look over at Quentin.

The cigarette perched in between the two fingers of his free hand suddenly go up in a ghoulish green flame, leaving ash behind to flat and smudge around in the process, though Asta pays it little mind as his dark gaze focuses on the author. “And perhaps find it a bit more realistic.” He tacks on, clearly still not over the whole mucus inscription.

// you're not iconic, you are just like them all. don't act like you don't know //

And they lived comfortably ever after, boob in hand

Not quite an empath, Quentin nevertheless has an eye for detail, and there's no denying that Asta's pleasure sounds like something too dry that means to chafe instead of glide. The casual, suave smile falters for a moment on his face, and he quickly pops open his notebook and peers down into the pages as fresh, wet ink scrapes and darkens a scrawl of thought over the page.

Werefiends don't understand pleasure.

"Oh, yes, very good," he hums thoughtfully, attention lifting off the page back to the men winding around one another. He pinches his chin in thought as he crosses the room to the inevitable, cuck chair that awaits. "Well, you're both completely feral with lust, and with no outlet, you turn to one another, but it's a power struggle because you're both alpha werefiends." One leg crosses over the other at the ankle, and Quentin sinks back into his throne of observation. "So lots of power and proper growling." A wink cast to Danta at that.

"I hear, by the way, you go by the Butcher now." Quentin's brows lift with the emphasis of the weight that earning that name carries. "Dare I ask, did you earn that title in the bedroom?" It could either mean he's a terrible lay, literally butchering the experience, or that he's quite skilled with meat enough to make it his profession. Quentin can only assume the latter if he's wooed the owner of the Dusklight, but he wants to ensure his source material is properly credited. "And congratulations, I know when Danta and I first discussed this, you weren't so crowned."

Quentin

i was created at the dawn of creation, i am temptation

Asta sends his cigarette up in flames and Danta opts to reach past and stub his own out in an ashtray shaped like a frost fox before settling against the other man again, flashing him a grin for his comments. "Fiction isn't real," he points out, before giving the floor to Quentin who, the Maverick is thrilled to see, already has his funny little notebook out to start work and is getting settled for his viewing pleasure.

"No acting needed there," he mutters half under his breath - feral with lust is how he spends most of his time in Asta's presence, so this shouldn't be difficult to replicate. Power struggle, though, has a sly smile curling against his lips, and he raises his eyebrows up at the Butcher.

"Think you can handle that?" he purrs. He has every intention of ending up the one on his knees after all is said and done, but fighting Asta for control over a situation, especially one pent up with sexual tension, has practically become a form of flirting between them. "I wouldn't want to undermine any of your proper growling."

Grinning, his fingers snag at the top button of his lover's waistcoat, tugging it with just enough audacity to have it pinging off somewhere else into the room. Sacrilege, yes, but worth it.

Dantalion

i am the snake in eden, i am the reason for treason

Astaroth

// so sip the gossip, drink 'til you choke. sip the gossip, burn down your throat //

He sighs, because it’s better than answering with yes but if it is not at least somewhat realistic, then it draws the reader out, because it feels like a moot point. And honestly, he isn’t going to complain as the Maverick drapes himself against him, even as his attention flicks toward Quentin to hear the scene. Feral with lust was certainly something he could do – it was something they often did, actually.

His lips part to ask what exactly a werefiend was, when he draws quiet at the explanation – power and growling, though it didn’t quite explain much else. And for, perhaps, one of the first times since his ascension to demigodhood does the Butcher quietly miss his fyrhund shift. That seemed more aligned with what Quentin was after, anyway.

His dark gaze flits down toward Danta, lips quirking up in soft amusement, a low huff of a laugh leaving him in spite of himself. “I will do anything to drown out that cowbell, darling.” He purrs, low enough for Danta to hear and maybe Quentin if he strained.

His attention flits up to the author again, however, his sharp teeth curving in that mischievous smile again. “I did not, however it is not.. not fitting for the bedroom, I suppose.” He hums, hearing and feeling the plink of the button that goes careening off in a random direction. It is sacrilege, because he finds he cant answer anymore question for the author as he instead turns his attention entirely on the Maverick.

“You are a divine nightmare.” The Butcher, remembering himself, lets his tone drip into a growl, one hand sweeping around Danta to his lower back, tugging him close while the other lifts to snatch his jaw, angling them for a chaste kiss. It doesn’t last long, because it’s his turn to reveal his little show of force, twisting them with his body to press Danta back against the bed post.

// you're not iconic, you are just like them all. don't act like you don't know //