[SE] six of cups

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

"I do prefer that sometimes," Danta admits with a saccharine smile, "though I can't say I believe you'd ever stubbornly demand that I pulverise the parts of you that already cause you pain, so nicely it is." Shrugging and letting his smile melt into something more softly genuine to feel the touch against his cheek, Danta lowers Asta's hand to tilt his head as if imagining his nails with the colour upon them. Before the butcher goes and gets all dramatic again, of course.

"I don't know, but it felt like you deserved it," he informs him, reaching out to brush long fingers against the side of his face as he sinks back against the headboard. "Well? Would my head of security like a manicure, or would he prefer something else?" Grinning, Asta likely knows well that Danta is more than capable of such a thing, but manicures are a gateway drug, and he'll likely exit the room with kohl-lined eyes and other accoutrements if the Maverick is allowed this one thing.

Dantalion

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

It’s a fair point, and one he hadn’t thought about past the fact that he would have to ask nicely about anything. So he lets it lie with the use of his real name, which sparks all kinds of dramatics regardless of how tender and gentle the Maverick tries to be with the attention flit over his face. It does attract his attention back, though, honey dark eyes focusing on the eager blues of the Maverick’s.

He looks like he’s contemplating, but in reality he’s simply taking the Maverick in. The somewhat wild golden hair, tousled and only haphazardly put back into place, the beautiful robe that sits loosely around his shoulders, the saccharinely fanged smile that greets him, flanked by the warm darkness of their little den and the flickering candlelight that makes the shadows on Danta’s face softer than the morning light would be.

And he caves, because he thinks he might burst if he were to deflate any of the eager excitement brimming in his lover’s face. “I did say I was at your whim, love.” He murmurs softly, pressing forward to steal a too soft and too short kiss before he withdraws only a fraction. “Feel free to do whatever it is you see fit.” He whispers against the Maverick’s lips.

Astaroth

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

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

Cocking his head to the side in a gesture that's all too avian, of course Danta isn't privy to the way Asta takes him in. But he does hear the confirmation, his delight stifled by the kiss the other man presses to his lips. "You say the sweetest things to me," he whispers, leaning in again for a real kiss, spending a lingering few moments wordlessly expressing his gratitude, before he withdraws with a final brush of his lips across the butcher's forehead.

Danta is forced to leave Asta momentarily to gather the things he needs, parting one of the drapes to give him enough light to work by but without completely ruining the cozy shade of their den. He returns soon enough, however, crawling right back into the other man's lap with much more than black nail polish, but the butcher has given him permission after all.

"When I'm finished here, you realise I may not want you to look any other way," he warns.

Dantalion

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

He could likely say more sweet things, but as it stands it’s a gift good enough for the man who has told his fortune and brought part of it to life (the wine simmering in his bloodstream, of course). So it’s a smile that’s pressed into the kiss before he closes his eyes to feel the kiss pressed to his forehead, reluctantly releasing the Maverick to go about whatever ideas have struck him for the moment.

It’s with a lap far too cold and eyes that squint because of the slight increase in light, that Astaroth finds the Maverick’s returned, slotting right back into place and multitudes of things the butcher admittedly had not been expecting. “I hope you realize you will likely have to be the one to do this if you wish to see me as such more often.” He teases back, before he settles, head lifted for whatever Danta deems necessary to his face or head, while his hands remain in easy reach. And he waits, like the perfect client for a makeover he’s sure is about to come.

Astaroth

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

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

"You say that as if it's a bad thing," Danta purrs, already expertly taking a nail file to the butcher's hands until he's satisfied. "You've seen me get ready in the mornings enough at this point to know I would relish doing the same for you." The Maverick veers from spending hours on his hair and outfit one morning to slouching into the first garment he sees the next; there's no rhyme or reason to it, completely at odds to the butcher. And so naturally, Asta is a challenge.

Affectionately pinching the other man's cheek as if to assure him that he's coming for his face next, for now the Maverick falls quiet to apply swift strokes of midnight to Asta's hands. Outside he can hear the bustle of The Last Whisper as it bubbles to life, and within the room the crackle of the fireplace continues to accompany his work. It's the sort of domestic scene he'd never thought he'd tolerate, let alone enjoy, and it has a quiet smile curling at his lips.

"I wonder if we'd read your fortune a year ago, it would have seen this coming," he remarks after a while.

Dantalion

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

“Mm, that is true, I have seen you get ready in the mornings.” And there are days that Danta rivals even the butcher when it comes to getting all put together — though Astaroth’s typically were spent ensuring each piece of clothing fit precisely how he wished it to be, lint free, wrinkle free, and ever the air of menacing. It took time.

Relinquishing control of his hands so Danta can file them and paint them (and pinch his cheeks), he watches with quiet awe and amusement as the midnight shade appears, dark and stark against the bronze hue of his fingers and the slightly paler and faint scars that accompany them. He’s lost in the lull of the crackling fireplace, the halo of gold and pale blue that line the edges of the Maverick as he works, the sound of the bustling Last Whisper just outside their window. Faint good mornings! from shop keeps and deliveries! can be heard, and he’s trying to eavesdrop more when Danta’s voice brings him back and he blinks back his focus on Danta’s face.

“I think if you had told me a year ago this is where I would be, I would say you were certifiably insane, fortune or no fortune.” His too sharp smile slants more playful, head tilting slightly for emphasis. “And that those cards are absolutely, most certainly, cursed.” As far as he can tell, though, the aren’t. And Astaroth lets the thought mull around his mind (because who would have ever thought he’d be here and in looove???) “Are you happy, love?” He asks suddenly, scanning his face for the answer before anything verbally leaves the Maverick.

Astaroth

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

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

"Now what were we just saying about sanity?" Danta drawls, flashing a mischievous smile at Asta before carefully setting his hands down to let the polish dry after successfully applying a second coat. He doesn't think he needs to tell the other man not to move lest he want them ruined - and to face the consequences of it - but the quick look the Maverick gives him says it all anyway. "Whether or not they are cursed, I think I'll still take them back downstairs later. I don't know if I'm cut out for fortune telling full time." Still, it's another hobby he's gotten to try, right?

Shifting to sit more comfortably in the butcher's lap, bringing him close enough to fuss, Danta has just managed to tease Asta's dark hair back and out of his face when he speaks again. The question alone is enough to have his stomach filling with butterflies, and the instant smile that curls across his lips ought to be enough to answer it alone.

"You're a sweet fool," the Maverick whispers, looping both arms around him to draw him close while he can't do anything about it. "Happier than I thought I could ever be," he continues. "Or that I could ever deserve. Are you?"

Dantalion

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

He does not need to be told to keep still – of course, but the look that the blonde gives him in return is one that almost dares him to do it just if only to see the repercussions. Next time, perhaps. Because for now he hums a note on the maybe, maybe-not cursed deck of tarot cards as he keeps his hands in a precise position to keep the polish drying without getting messed up, even as Danta readjusts and shifts more comfortably onto his lap to get closer to his face.

It's the sudden insecurities that swarm in like locusts, the urge to ask – to check that the Maverick, his Theocrat is happy. And its with eyes honey dark, bright enough that the shades of mahogany can be seen when Danta’s brushes back his dark curls from his face dexterously to not slice his hands open from the pronged horns on his head. And the butcher watches and feels the relief swell through him to see the smile that curls across those perfect lips, to the slight wrinkle he gets in the corner of his mouth when something takes him off guard in a good way.

He can’t do anything as he’s drawn closer, though there isn’t any other place he’d rather be – trapped within the warmth of Dantalion’s embrace, fussed over, drowning happily in the scent of sage and citrus, of lingering smoke and fruity, deep wine. “Yes.” He says softly, taking a deep inhale of a breath, nuzzling his face in before Danta ends up doing too much to it where he can’t (just like how his nails are at the present moment). “I believe I am the happiest I have ever been.” Comes the quiet admission (which is huge considering all of the feats and glee the butcher had gotten in varying sprees) as he presses a soft kiss to the hollow of Danta's throat.

To be here, to wake up beside the Maverick, to love him and be loved in return? Far exceeds anything else he could have ever imagined for himself.

Astaroth

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

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

"This happy, and without even a drop of bloodshed," Danta says, his words framed by a smile as he presses a kiss to the butcher's crown of dark hair, careful not to cut himself (and ruin his comment) on the sharp prongs of his horns. "Good," he adds in a quieter voice, the word low and sincere as he keeps the other man clasped against him. "You deserve some peace. We both do." And long may it continue, until the next inevitable crisis.

Letting out a long, content sigh and peppering Asta with further kisses, when Danta finally draws back, the butcher should at least be able to move his fingers again as long as he's careful. "If you think your affections are going to spare you entirely from this, though, you're very mistaken," he says with a wry smile that flashes his fangs, smoothing gentle hands across the other man's cheeks and turning his head this way and that, as if to check what he's working with despite having memorised Asta's every feature at this point.

"Alright, keep still," he tells him, rummaging around in the other supplies he's brought so he might get to work.

Dantalion

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

Speaking of bloodshed, the butcher realizes swiftly that it has been a little while since sating his bloodlust. So as his lips press against the hollow of Danta’s throat, he hums a little “it is surprising, I know.” He agrees softly, relishing in the kiss to his hair, kept close to breath the Maverick’s scent in deeply so that when they part it douses the rest of his senses — love drunk as he’s fussed over and pampered. “Yes we do, love.” He agrees in a warm breath and another kiss to his neck again.

Pulling back when Danta does, his hands feel mostly dry, and so he wiggles his fingers before inspecting them — finding that at the very least it would hide the bits of blood that seemed to stain his fingernails regardless of how much he washed up. “I am under no assumption of such a thing.” He hums, warm mahogany lighting up as he stills, malleable to the other Ancient’s touch to angle his head this way and that.

Humming a note to say that he will stay still, the butcher’s hands return to resting gently against Danta’s thighs, stroking idle patterns with the pads of his fingertips as the Maverick works his magic.

Astaroth

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

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

All too keen to work said magic, Danta offers little more than a smile down at Asta before falling silent to concentrate on the task at hand. Luckily for him, the butcher is a very obedient subject and the Maverick happens to be very good at what he does (he hadn't discovered this sort of thing until after escaping Morax's clutches, and he's keen to make the most of it now). After carefully applying kohl to Asta's honey dark eyes, he does mumble something about the other man having unfairly long eyelashes, but at least he gets to look at them all day, he supposes.

Having already swept his hair back out of his face, it's with wicked yet gentle fingers that he weaves a braid into it, adding a few silvery cuffs and rings and other decorations before pinning it carefully out of the way. "Don't you ever get a haircut," he purrs, the demand a playful one as he sits back to look Asta over. "A vision," he announces. "Shame you don't have your ear pierced, though. I've got a ruby stud that would suit you."

Dantalion

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

It is a strange sensation, the kohl around his eyes, and it takes a bit of getting used to — blinking a few times when he’s sure that Danta’s done applying it. The hands in his hair are a good indicator, and while he gets used to it, he watches the blonde’s arms work to adorn his hair and braid it. A soft snort leaves him belatedly at the comment of his eyelashes, and if he bats his eyes at the Maverick when the blonde pulls back to survey his work, so be it.

“My hair is the biggest thing I refuse to change, darling.” He agrees in a soft hum, tilting his head slightly to feel the additional light weight and the clink of rings as they bump against each other with the movement. Raising a dark brow at the mention of ear piercings, though, it likely isn’t the best idea given his bloodlust status, but gods if he doesn’t find himself wanting to embrace a newer version of himself from his reawakening.

He’d made drastic changes from Whitebrim Cannibal to be the Ancient they all knew. Perhaps a piercing or two would be just an additional thing to prove that it’s the next chapter of his life.

Reaching up with now dry fingernails, the butcher’s fingertips glide affectionately along Danta’s jaw as he flashes a shark toothed grin at the Ancient in his lap. “How difficult would it be to do?” He asks curiously, his eyes brighter now with the dark outline of kohl. “If it is easy, I think we should do it.” Raising a brow with that same grin that twists to a smirk, he waits for the answer.

Astaroth

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

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

"I would never ask you to change it," Danta assures him with a grin, sitting back properly to spend a moment or two admiring his work. Feeling a mixture of pride and undeniable butterflies to see the butcher as he is, the Maverick tilts his head to the side to consider, relishing the black tipped fingers that whisper along the sharp curve of his jaw. "It should be easy enough. I did all my own, after all." And Danta is forever glittering with jewels in his ears these days.

"If you're sure," he trills, already reaching for a needle with a wicked glint to his expression, as if he wants to make sure he gets the chance to do this before Asta changes his mind. A lick of fire magic ensures that the sharp implement is sterile enough for use, and he leans in for a brief kiss even as he reaches out to pinch at the butcher's earlobe.

"I'm not going to give you a countdown," he advises, even as his other hand moves smoothly with the needle. "You'll only tense up and then - there you go - it will be more difficult." Because, naturally, Danta goes ahead and pierces Asta's ear mid-conversation. A bead of blood oozes in the wake of the needle, and were it not for Danta being busy with the stud he intends to replace it with, he might have kissed it all better for the butcher.

Dantalion

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

He knows Danta wouldn’t ask him to change it, and even if he did the butcher thinks it’s the one thing he would not find himself capable of doing. So in complete agreement, still love drunk on the scent of citrus and sage, the butcher doesn’t think he will change his mind — even as his kohl lined gaze scans the jewels forever shining in the Maverick’s ears. “I am.” He confirms despite knowing Danta’s already going through with it.

It’s strange, because for all of the inconsistencies of feeling the majority of the butcher’s torso harbors, the butcher’s ears and face are still quite sensitive. So while he only half expects the pain, it isn’t nearly as bad as he thought it might be. He does still sharply inhale to feel the pierce of the needle, the blood filling his senses despite it being naught more than a bead, and the mixture of the iron and citrus and sage makes his mahogany gaze darken a touch more coy. “Are you intending to do just the one?” He asks, voice a touch rougher, remaining still for the Maverick to slip the stud in.

Astaroth

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