hold you to the light, let you shine

// as long as there's bread and as long as there's an appetite //

The week arrives, and in between that time he’s managed to sneakily set up this part of the Temple before the day comes. Having mentioned to Charlie he’d be borrowing the space with the shrine for a night, he’d snuck away and set it up brilliantly so that when Danta arrives it would be precisely the thing Danta may have imagined a date being. At least, an Ancient version.

Because Astaroth won’t be there when the Maverick arrives to this wing of the Temple.

The blonde will arrive first, greeted by a warm, roaring flame and candlelight smattered throughout the shrine location, where the obsidian shrine sits undecorated aside from the help Charlie had done when they’d placed it. Half of it sleek and smooth, melting into chaotic whims on the other half. A perfect yin yang to the rest of it, shown by the way the sleek wooden floors give way to earth and rock, currently decorated with nothing more than flickering fire and oil lamps spread throughout, encased in red hued glass. In the corner sits a cart with wine, glasses, and whiskeys, tucked away as if in preparation to not get caught in a scuffle of some kind.

The butcher isn’t far behind Danta’s arrival – having planned everything down to the final detail. This is the perfectionist within the taller Ancient, one that will shortly bleed into the chaos that Danta would thrive with. And so, a few minutes of allowing the Maverick to inspect the set up, there’s the sound of hooves against wood, a creak of a door, and a momentary pause for the butcher to slip into the space – all too sharp grins and dressed down in naught more than a dark black shirt with black suspenders and black pants – sleeves rolled up and the top two buttons undone, watching curiously to see how Danta reacts to the space before he reveals the star of their date.

Astaroth

// as long as everyone you need is stepping in line, you are camouflaged //

in space the stars are no nearer; just glitters, like a morgue

Hilariously, Danta has no idea what a date is meant to look like, Ancient or otherwise, and so Asta would likely have been able to do anything and the Maverick would find it acceptable. As it happens, though, the butcher knows him very well, and so as he arrives under the red and orange streamers of sunset, it's to a quiet and empty Temple, and he heads to the space directed on soft feet, prowling around in search of the other man.

He doesn't find him, of course, but he does find the shrine, and already things are starting to click into place, but Danta refuses to entertain his own thoughts for too long lest he spoil anything by accident. Instead, letting his fingers dance over the sheer, perfect slab of obsidian right up until it buckles and cracks into chaos, he waits. He doesn't touch the wine or whiskey either - proof of his impeccable patience, you understand.

And when Asta does arrived, accompanied by the sound of hoofbeats on wood, Danta is already turning to appraise him, cold blue eyes trickling down the length of his body as if he might be the one intended to be the star of this presumed show. Unintentionally, it seems, they are a mirror of one another tonight - dressed in black and missing only the suspenders, Danta rolls his sleeves up as if guessing he might want them out of the way. "Good evening," he purrs. "Colour me intrigued."

Dantalion

// as long as there's bread and as long as there's an appetite //

Blocking the space from prying eyes, the butcher’s grin is sharp and vibrant in the firelight and flickering red hues that cast long shadows against the walls and floors, and as he takes in the Maverick the fact that they match is not lost on him. His horned head tilts, tail sweeping out as he inclines his head toward the other Ancient, his voice its own version of a deep accented purr as he takes a step in, hands that had been behind him shift in front of him, a rope in clear view. “Good evening, darling.” It’s the initial greeting, before he drifts further in.

It's a challenge of sorts, given that the stag doesn’t want to move further in. Its eyes are wild as it shies away from the fire that seems to be coming from everywhere. “Apologies for being late. I was retrieving our main course.” Stepping aside and rather forcefully pulling the stag in despite its attempts to back out of the space again, his own horned head tilts toward it – the obsidian matching the exact prongs that the stag harbors. It isn’t a large one – but big enough for the two of them. Enough for the butcher to be able to handle getting here and through the doors without too much of a fight.

“There is one condition, however.” At this is voice drops into a playful purr, his grin extra sharp when it turns toward the Maverick. “We must saturate the ground of the shrine with as much blood as possible.” Here he cocks his head, playful and loosened up, excited to watch Danta let loose. “But that should be quite easy for you to accomplish, shouldn’t it, darling?” And himself, of course, but this is his offering on their date. The Maverick gets the first strike in the space that will soon be dedicated to their goddess.

Astaroth

// as long as everyone you need is stepping in line, you are camouflaged //

in space the stars are no nearer; just glitters, like a morgue

"Yes, I can rather see that," Danta croons, tilting his head and stepping aside somewhat as the stag is forcefully led into the shrine area. He raises his eyebrows, surprised that Asta has chosen to lead something wild into so domestic a space (comparatively when one considers the woods and forests, of course), until the butcher explains himself. The Maverick is already eyeing the creature, as if able to smell the adrenaline rolling off it, the fear in its blood, and he keeps himself leashed - barely.

"I'm confident I can manage that," he agrees, his voice barely a whisper as he ghosts around Asta and the stag, as if prowling towards his prey. Not that it has anywhere to go - and some might consider it cruel, he supposes, to have an animal led in for laughter. But for Danta, it's neither cruel nor unfair nor unnecessary. It just is.

Letting his fingertips walk across Asta's shoulders, barely grazing him, the Maverick is drawing away again soon enough. "I'm afraid I didn't bring anything other than my teeth," he purrs. "...But if you like, I do have something new up my sleeve I can show you. You'd be better off standing by the door for it."

Dantalion

// as long as there's bread and as long as there's an appetite //

If the butcher had his choice, he’d have lead some depraved soul within the confines of the shrine section – but alas, he’d made a promise to the Maverick that he would be good and not draw attention to his personal proclivities. And so, while deer isn’t exactly his cup of tea, it’s enough to sate both of their bloodlusts for some time – an attempt to prevent the two of them from delving into their more feral sides.

Remaining still as Danta inspects the offering, his tail sweeping over to brush against the Maverick’s leg in a gentle touch, the grin is still on display fully as their quarry begins its slow panic, horned head twisting toward the door. “Something new, hmm? I would love nothing more than to see it.” He purrs, clearly quite intrigued, and before he drops the rope to block the door, the butcher reaches up to gentle cup the blonde’s face in a soft touch, stealing a chaste kiss before he withdraws, dropping the rope as he heads to block the door from letting the deer escape.

“Enjoy yourself, darling.” He fully intends to join in once he’s seen what Danta’s got up his sleeve, once the Maverick has spilled the stag’s blood. But rather than watch the creature as it grows more and more frantic each passing second, his dark honeyed gaze is glued on the blonde, anticipation and adoration mixing together to form an eagerness at witnessing the Maverick’s chaos.

Astaroth

// as long as everyone you need is stepping in line, you are camouflaged //

in space the stars are no nearer; just glitters, like a morgue

"Good, because I would love nothing more than to show you," Danta says, accepting the easy affection, even as the butcher forces his attention away from his quarry to steal a kiss from his lips. Nipping hard at the ther man's lower lip but watching him retreat to the door with a feral sort of warmth nonetheless, the Maverick finally allows himself to fully take in the stag. He rolls his shoulders as if relaxing into the moment, and already the creature is beginning to paw at the wooden boards and skitter into any available space that Danta isn't.

It's as if it knows already that things aren't as they seem - which, correct. It won't save it, though.

Having been aware of the thing beneath his skin for some time now, this is nonetheless Danta's first time properly using the shift. Even so, his transition into scale and leathery wings and rows upon rows of razor sharp teeth is a smooth one, and where once the Theocrat had stood, a lyvern prowls in its place, claws raking at the wood.

The stag lets out a bleat of utter panic, but before it can so much as buck or try to dart away, Danta is upon it. His jaws fasten around its flank, tearing and snapping and gushing dark blood onto the ground, and it's already downed when he goes for its throat, ripping it out entirely.

Dantalion

// as long as there's bread and as long as there's an appetite //

Whatever it is that Astaroth expects, this far surpasses it. Between the lingering feeling of Danta’s nip at his lower lip and the view of the Maverick turning into a beast he’s never seen before – no name to call it by, but delighted and awed all the same, he realizes he doesn’t need to block the door from letting the stag escape. Because there’s nowhere to run when the Maverick’s shape envelops most of the temple.

Iron paints the air, delightful bleats of pain and panic leave the stag’s throat in a bugle of destruction that’s music to the butcher’s ears, and he finds himself with his arms folded, leaning against the frame, in clear wonderment at the violence Danta shows. The flank tears out, sending the stag to the unearthed ground, and by the time Danta’s aiming for its throat, the butcher’s prowling forward.

Dark delight slips from his lips in a laugh as the throat is ripped out, and rather than shift into the fyrhund shift of his that he debates doing, he instead kneels on the other side of the stag, in Danta’s shadow, kneeling in the blood as his hands immediately spread along the stag’s torn hide, spreading bloody handprints along the creature’s skin, even as his deeply accented voice is aimed at the lyvern. “You are remarkable.” And vicious, and everything that sparks the chaotic tortured blackened soul that lingers in the butcher’s chest.

His dark honeyed gaze lifts to the lyvern, bold enough to assume that Danta won’t go for him despite where he’s knelt. It looks like worship, the way the blood sticks and clings to his hands, the way he snags the knife from his boot and holds it up with both hands, needing the strength required of neither of his shifts to stab the blade through the creature’s ribcage, letting the blood pool out amongst another weak cry of the stag, spreading further amongst the exposed earth. It’s nearly a sacrifice for the Maverick, bathed in blood and fire, smattering along the butcher’s face as he grins that too sharp grin up at Danta.

Now they can feast.

Astaroth

// as long as everyone you need is stepping in line, you are camouflaged //

in space the stars are no nearer; just glitters, like a morgue

It's true that with his wings spread the Maverick-turned-lyvern seems quite the impressive size - certainly enough to corner and panic the stag before he sets himself upon it. Once those leathery appendages fold, though, the shift is quite compact; should Asta ever want to, given his height, he might be able to manhandle Danta as a lyvern. (If he ever feels like grabbing a small bear-sized creature, that is).

With the stench of iron thick in the air and crimson soaking into the earth beneath the fallen creature, the Maverick is almost heedless to stop himself from feasting. Only the butcher's words give him pause, however faint they might sound, and he lifts his head to see the other man drop to his knees, pants instantly drenched in scarlet. Tracking the blade from his boot, the soft and dying bleat of the stag, the flecks of blood that coat his face, it truly is bold of Asta to assume Danta won't snap jagged teeth at him next.

He doesn't, though. But the lyvern's jaws do part to roar out a savage, keening, possessive sort of sound, one that bounces off the walls of the room and echoes long after. In the silence following it, only then does Danta shift back, his clothes saturated and ruined. He has the good grace to look a little sheepish, clearing his throat. "Sorry about that."

Dantalion

// as long as there's bread and as long as there's an appetite //

He could try to manhandle the lyvern, but there’s nothing within the butchers mind that wants to destroy this beautiful imagery. Him knelt before the stag with its soft bleats as life ebbs away, the lyvern in between feasting and focusing on the butcher, before a roar echoes and rattles through the temple.

It is incredibly bold of Astaroth, but he’s pretty sure Danta won’t completely lose himself in the shift. The Maverick hasn’t been pushing off or not noticing his bloodlust — his little journal to keep track of the times Danta has so that it never gets back to the point that it had earlier this season. Nevertheless, the butcher harbors no fear as he slides the knife through to puncture the heart of the beast, his dark gaze lifting to scan the lyvern in response to the echoing roar, though he doesn’t move, instead flashing that same too sharp smile to the Maverick.

Blood splatters along his hands and his face as Danta shifts back, the apology shrug off immediately as he peels back some of the hide with a precision cut from the blade. “There is no need to apologize, darling.” He hums, flashing Danta a wink to punctuate the point with the grin before he leans down to snag a mouthful himself, all grace and proper manners vanishing.

Astaroth

// as long as everyone you need is stepping in line, you are camouflaged //

in space the stars are no nearer; just glitters, like a morgue

A little flushed from the effort of shifting and with the adrenaline of the kill still singing in his veins, Danta can do little more than huff out a soft laugh in response to Asta, having no choice but to accept his casual rebuttal. The knife flashes expertly in his hands and the hide begins to part from the deer carcass, and in that moment he can fully appreciate while they call the other man the butcher. Breathing in deep the scent of blood and viscera, as Asta finally bends to the rich, raw flesh and muscle, Danta joins him.

Ripping and tearing and filling the air with the sharp crack of bone, Danta doesn't know quite when his bloodlust kindles into a different sort of craving. All he knows is that at some point, lifting his gaze from the mess of crimson and fur, he's reaching out to try and grab the front of Asta's shirt in a bloody fist; whether he drags himself across the carcass to pin the butcher down, or draws the other man atop him, Danta doesn't much care. As long as he gets to taste the blood hot against the other man's mouth, the how of it can wait.

Dantalion

// as long as there's bread and as long as there's an appetite //

Indulge, they do. The two Ancients feasting on the deer as the hot blood continues to cool and soak into the earth, there’s satisfaction that lingers within the butcher’s bones, one that curls comfortably around the chaotic dark heart laying within his chest, beating with content at the way this date has gone so far.

Withdrawing with a hum of content, it’s then that Astaroth’s shirt is grabbed by the blonde — smattered and drenched in red — and gods what a beautiful sight it is. He nearly says as much as he’s used as an anchor point for Danta to slide over the cooling body of the stag beneath them, pushing the butcher back and down (something he ordinarily wouldn’t do, but he’s content and satisfied and happy to oblige).

He finds himself on his back, blood slick hands press against Danta’s hips and sides, keeping him held close as he presses back into the kiss, only somewhat careful this time to not nick the other man’s lips with the force of it. There’s no need to worry on the butcher’s side, his bloodlust sated and content, enough that the additional blood and the pool he’s pressed back into don’t send him spiraling over the edge.

Astaroth

// as long as everyone you need is stepping in line, you are camouflaged //

in space the stars are no nearer; just glitters, like a morgue

All but falling over the carcass of the deer to allow himself to slide atop the other man, Danta's tongue is as greedy in Asta's mouth as it had been in devouring their kill, and he stretches himself taut against the hard length of his body, one of his forearms braced against the blood-soaked earth. The other hand clasps Asta's jaw, as if worried he might pull away for some reason, and only when Danta has satisfied himself on the taste of the butcher does he draw back, panting.

He doesn't say it, and he doesn't need to, the words sitting just behind his teeth and all but singing out of him wherever they touch - you're mine and I want you. As the other man's possessive hands grasp at his hips, Danta is already unbuttoning his pants, followed by Astaroth's. This isn't the time or the place for the reverent removal of clothing, for stripping each other bare and enjoying each other for hours, and the Maverick intends only to take off the minimum to drag further pleasure out of the both of them.

Dantalion

// as long as there's bread and as long as there's an appetite //

He wouldn’t dream of pulling away from the kiss — enjoying the taste of their kill, of the satisfied bloodlust that tingles through his being, of Danta’s tongue and lips in a sweetness he couldn’t ever accurately describe. The weight of the other man atop him simply adds to the perfection that the evening has delved into — this part of the temple naught more than candlelight, dark shadows, the lifeless and torn apart carcass within reach.

He doesn’t reach for it, though, too occupied with the way the heat between them seems to blossom tenfold without the spark of fire, and Astaroth is completely content to bask in the possessiveness displayed in each movement of the blonde’s body. He pants when they part, too, basking in the beauty of the sharp edges of Danta’s cheekbones, the flush to his skin, shadowed by the way he rises enough to start working at the buttons on their pants.

A low and content hum of a laugh escapes him, rising up onto his elbows to watch the display, even if it means withdrawing his hands from the other Ancient’s hips. He makes up for it with the reverent swipe of his tail along the Maverick’s back, matching the slow sweep of his tongue across his lips, savoring the taste. The grin returns shortly after, before the slight shimmy is done to slip their pants down further. The requirements of his own lust are met easily in this instance, and with the radiating heat of Danta, the butcher’s length springs free with a sigh of relief, already slightly rolling his hips as if to garner the Maverick’s attention where precisely he wants it, content with however quick and inelegant this is turning out to be.

Astaroth

// as long as everyone you need is stepping in line, you are camouflaged //

in space the stars are no nearer; just glitters, like a morgue

"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up," Danta huffs, a half smile kicking up the corner of his mouth as he struggles to free them from their clothes. It's your fault for driving me fucking wild. Back arching against the brush of a spaded tail against his spine, the Maverick finally shoves his pants down enough for some much needed relief of his own, though he's leaning forward again almost without his own permission to taste Asta's lips a second time.

One hand slips between their bodies, fingers wrapping around the hard length of both of their cocks, stroking out a rhythm that brokers no room for teasing or idle arousal. He wants Asta, and he wants him now. "If you don't fuck me in the next minute I won't be held responsible." He growls the warning into the other man's mouth, though it's near impossible to pull himself away from the butcher. Blood hangs heavy in their air and the evidence of their chaos and violence lays mere feet away - can he really be blamed?

Dantalion