fuck that shit let's start a riot

// you knew who I was //

"Astaroth." It's a gentle scolding, one that doesn't take away from the enormity of what has happened and the state the butcher has worked himself into, but equally won't stand for should'ves. "Don't talk about the man I love like that." Reaching up again to wipe(ish?) more blood and tears from his face, his hand lingers there for a few seconds, thumb brushing across his cheek, before Asta is finally acquiescing, however much it might be lip service.

"Okay," he echoes back to him, pressing one last kiss to his hair before he's gingerly peeling himself away, steeling against any protests from the wound at his back until he can clean and bandage his arm and make them a very heavy cocktail of drugs. Drawing the drapes back from their den to let in the pre-dawn gloom - and so Asta can see where he is - Danta coaxes the fire up higher and spends a moment there to clean off the blood with a mix of flame and water, apply some ointment from one of the butcher's comprehensive first aid kits, and bandage it up tightly.

By the time he returns to the den, he's started making them tea and is carrying a glass of cool water and a cocktail of the delightful medicines the nurses from the Temple had provided. "All of them," he urges, offering them out to Asta. "You ripped the muzzle right off. Your shoulder must be killing you."

Dantalion

// with every step that I ran to you //