it stings sometimes

// you've got a passion in those eyes //

The words - so simple and quick, Danta realises - that spill from Asta's lips are ones he hasn't realised he's been craving, and the rush of heat that unfurls straight south at hearing them isn't something that can be ignored. With eyes slipping shut and his head tilting further to invite the butcher's lips and teeth, his fingers tighten further in the other man's hair, right until his fangs carve through the flesh against his neck and shoulder. The pleasure mingling with pain is enough to drag a moan from his throat, the Maverick taut as a bowstring beneath the body stretched over his own, hands flinching even as the rest of him ignites and burns.

Already he's lifting a leg to hook it around Asta's hips, anchoring them closer together, and the encouraging flick of his tongue is more than enough to have Danta craving it all over every other part of him. "Say it again," he almost growls, raking his nails down the other man's back, his tail thrashing its own opinion against the sheets. "If you plan to fuck me tonight, you better say it again."

Dantalion

// so aim it straight and true //

// with our one foot in the grave //

Heat disperses down his bones and carves a burning path through any of the voids left in the hollows of his chest, iron filling his senses and dragging his attention into a pinpoint focus. The result? Danta’s everything. Where the butcher ends and begins, an ouroboros branded into the dark veins of Astaroth’s heart. The moan that escapes the Maverick only spurs the butcher on, lips and tongue swiping away the blood before it can clot completely.

It paints his lips in a scarlet hue, enough that it starts to drip from his lips, burying into the edge of his beard. He shifts, drawing up and away from the wound, arms planted on either side of Danta’s head, fingers plunging into blonde locks and snagging on glittering diamond horns. He hovers above his face, eyes impossibly dark now, heavily lidded as a drop of blood falls from the sharp curl of his lips, landing on the blonde’s Cupid’s bow as his fingers tighten into the other man’s hair, bolstered and uncaring of his admissions in the here and now. “You are mine.” It’s said with more oomph this time, the deeper Whitebrim accent curling over the vow. Something within him starts to both blossom and crack, fractures of bloodied light growing from the hollows of a frozen heart.

It spurs him to continue, his voice dropping further into the tones of centuries before. “And so help me gods, Dantalion, if anyone tries to take you from me—” They both know the kinds of terrible things the butcher would do to get him back. He doesn’t finish the sentiment for that reason, not as he dives in to claim a greedier kiss, spreading the iron along Danta’s own lips, sharing the blood with his kiss. Punctuating the point, his hips roll against the Maverick, pinning him hard against the soft, plush mattress.

Astaroth

// while the other one's kicking its way right down to hell //

// you've got a passion in those eyes //

Letting his eyes flick open in time to see Asta drown out the world above him, Danta swears he can see the pulse beating in the butcher's neck, the way life and death dance in his eyes even as he's swallowed whole by that honey dark gaze. The repetition drips from his lips as certainly as the blood falls upon Danta's face, and the iron tang of it awakens the parts of him best left sleeping. This time, at least, the Maverick's craving for violence is reserved for the world outside, for any whisper of interruption, but by the grace of the gods, there's nothing and no one around. Only Astaroth.

Only ever Asta.

"I'd like to see them try--" he hisses out, and not just in the exaggerated way such a statement is usually made. Whilst his lips are caught in blood and teeth and the heat of the other man's tongue, Danta very much means it literally. He'd love to see the sorts of things Asta would do to anyone who got between them; he'd relish every breaking bone, every dark punishment, every spray of rich crimson.

Grasping almost desperately at the other man as if he might get more of him somehow, Danta arches against the roll of the butcher's hips, the movement trapping the moan that tries to escape his lips. He's wearing too many clothes, he realises belatedly, and it's with hardly a thought that flames roar up and around them, singing the blankets and catching at the mattress - and burning their clothing to cinders as well, while he's at it.

Dantalion

// so aim it straight and true //

// with our one foot in the grave //

He would let Danta watch. He’d even let him participate, if he so wished. He’s slowly coming to the realization (like a bright fucking neon sign in his mind) that maybe Flora was right when she’d suggested he’d do anything for him. Anything.

He can’t answer verbally, or even through a mental bond like the attuned share, but what he can do is answer in the press of his lips, the stroke of his tongue, the nipping of his teeth into plush lips to spark more smaller little droplets of scarlet. He’s far more reserved than he had been in Torchline, thankfully not losing his mind, instead reverting back into an almost playful predator, calculating each space he sinks his teeth into, each place he smears the other man’s blood.

The Maverick invades his thoughts to where he doesn’t know where either of them end, only to suddenly come very much to when fire scorches and turns their clothes to ash and embers, catching the mattress and the blankets, filling the air with the burnt scent of singed hair from the furs as they catch.

It’s with an almost hiccuped sound that he pulls away from the kiss, the sound that breaks into a dark delighted laugh as he uses his own magic to put the flame out, even as the heat reverberates from the smoking mattress. “As much as I would love to fuck you in fire, I would like to not have to sleep on the floor.” It’s haughtily said, drawing up and pulling Danta closer, the ash where clothes had once been mars their skin in swaths of black. He can mourn the loss of his pants later. His hand draws little designs in the dark grey, toying and prolonging it even if his arousal is clear as day. “Unless you would concede to staying in my room after?” In which case, let it burn.

Astaroth

// while the other one's kicking its way right down to hell //

// you've got a passion in those eyes //

The fire is gone as quickly as it ignites, thanks to Asta's quick thinking, and whilst they'll certainly have to open some windows and toss away a few of the furs and blankets, there's nothing that can't be salvaged. Danta almost thinks it's a shame until the sound of the butcher's laughter fills his ears, a crooked smile curling across his lips in turn. Shifting to get his elbows underneath him, it's through lips painted scarlet with blood (not to mention the freely bleeding bite on his shoulder) that he hums his consideration for the other man's offer.

By the time he's decided on an answer, of course, Asta is drawing him closer, and his warm hands against his bare skin are enough to make his mouth water. Caring little for the patterns being painted onto his flesh in dark, ashy strokes, instead Danta reaches out to grasp at the other man's jaw, drawing him back against his lips; his free hand, naturally, slips between Asta's legs to squeeze the hard length of his cock. "I'll try to contain myself," he purrs into the kiss.

But if it does burn? Fuck it.

After Danta, of course.

Dantalion

// so aim it straight and true //

// with our one foot in the grave //

Despite having standards, it’s a shame that it doesn’t spark to life around them. He’d have gladly made the trek down to his room once the bed and frame were burnt to ash. But before he can get an answer out to Danta’s attempt to containing himself, the Maverick meets him halfway, their lips colliding in another greedy kiss, his hands smoothing out against the blonde’s ribcage. The hand that dives between them causes the butcher to release a groan into the kiss, pressing in harder with a fiery vigor to push him back down.

An ashen hand lifts to cup the side of Danta’s head, opposite of the still bleeding wound, before he withdraws from the press of their lips to tug his head to the side, to bury his face in against the wound once more. “A shame,” he breathes the taunt. Wet kisses smear along the blood even more, almost reverently tracing the shapes of the wounds. His hips snap against the hand that’s squeezed his cock, and with a twitch he starts to withdraw again.

Not for long, though, just enough to slip back to the edge of the bed, feet planting on the wooden floor as he drags Danta along with him — happily manhandling the Theocrat to get him into the precise position he wants. One ashen hand slips under Danta to prop his hips up, the other encircling the blonde’s own cock, stroking in a few quick motions to spur it on, the idea very clear that the butcher wants to watch Danta’s face when he sinks his cock into him.

Astaroth

// while the other one's kicking its way right down to hell //

// you've got a passion in those eyes //

It's everything that Danta has been craving, from the possessive hands that grip and manoeuvre him to the groan that vibrates against his lips, his wicked fingers stroking against the butcher's cock even as he's shoved back against the bed. Gasping into the open air to feel lips and teeth tease once more at the bite on his neck, Danta can already see the rainbow of bruises that will follow in the wake of tonight; against his throat, his shoulders, his ribs, his thighs. Now more than ever, not only will the Maverick wear those marks proudly (something he has always done, granted); he looks forward to each and every one.

Hitching in a breath to feel Asta's presence vanish from over him, as it happens there's no need for him to worry, because in the next moment he's being drawn towards the edge of the bed. Dark anticipation alights in his eyes, Danta gazing up expectantly at the other man, lips painted red and body coated in ash, only for the expression to break into something overwhelmed and needy as a skilled hand grasps at his cock.

"Fuck, Asta..." Hissing out the breath that has been caught in his chest, he hooks his legs about the butcher's hips enough to tug him playfully closer. With hands balling against the ruined sheets and his cock throbbing hard in Asta's grip, he has no intention of leaving the other man without a show worth watching.

Dantalion

// so aim it straight and true //

// with our one foot in the grave //

They toy, tease, and taunt one another with the wickedness of their hands, and yet Astaroth very gladly leaves the marks and bruises behind. He, too, is looking forward to the marks left behind, fingerprints that match his own, teeth marks that match the shark bite look of his own, pretending as if nothing happened as he remains that unphased, stalwart figure in the Dusklight, overseeing from any danger as Danta flits around.

It’s another semblance of mine that he doesn’t have to announce, not when it’s written on the Maverick’s body, and he gladly indulges in the touches as he tugs him to the edge of the bed, greedily drinking in the show with dark honeyed eyes. “You are perfect,” he growls out, teeth clicking against the t. It’s the last thing he grits out before he’s pulled closer by Danta’s legs, sinking into the other man with a gruff and sharp exhale, an ashen hand finding Danta’s thigh and leaving another series of handprints amongst the softer flesh. His other hand hesitates in its strokes momentarily before he’s matching it with the snap of his hips, the rhythm picked out and matched, dark eyes focusing on Danta’s show even as he pants through bloodied lips.

Astaroth

// while the other one's kicking its way right down to hell //

// you've got a passion in those eyes //

I'm yours, is what Danta wants to correct, but in that moment he's drawing the butcher forward, and he enters him swiftly enough to burn away all the words on the Maverick's tongue. Instead, it's with a rough cry of both surprise and pleasure that Asta takes him, Danta's fists clutching at the sheets and his back arching as if fighting to accommodate the other man's thrusts. His heels press hard against Asta's back, encouraging him on, and though he can absolutely feel the richochets of pleasure from the strokes against his cock, gods, it's nothing compared to the feel of him.

"Fuck me harder," he grates out, the sound of his begging for the butcher's ears only, and whilst wisps of fire escape Danta's fingertips to singe at the blankets, it's not enough to burn the place down. Not yet, anyway. With the colour high in his cheeks, though, and Astaroth all over him and even closer still, it's a real concern they ought to have.

Dantalion

// so aim it straight and true //

// with our one foot in the grave //

It is exactly what Astaroth wants, each sudden craving met and then some. Ash and blood spark the chaotic energy fighting within the butcher as his thrusts are met with more encouraging sounds. Despite the panting that passes his lips, the grin turns sharper as Danta’s begging meets his ears. Who is he to deny him? His hand squeezes a bit tighter, his feet plant for more stability, and he shifts a little to stretch over the Maverick. The free hand lifts and snags some sparks from Danta’s fingers, wreathing his hand in flame as it reflects in his black honey eyes. “Gladly.”

The hand itself presses against the bite wound, smoking up the blood that still tries to seep out. In place, between focusing on fucking the Maverick harder and controlling the flame, he lets the fire lick down along Danta’s chest and stomach, letting the flames lick against the hand still matching brutal the pace of his hips. His tail tightens almost painfully tight around the other Ancient’s leg, and with the heat melting around them and singing the blankets, the butcher’s groans of pleasure reverberate for Danta’s ears only.

Astaroth

// while the other one's kicking its way right down to hell //

// you've got a passion in those eyes //

Hissing in a breath of mingled pleasure and pain to feel fiery fingers grasp at the wound against his shoulder, it's forgotten about soon enough as Danta's thoughts are consumed by the relentless snap of the butcher's hips and by every place they touch and all the places they don't. Flame trickles down his chest and pools low in his stomach, both within and without (or so it feels), and he bites at his lower lip hard enough for one fang to draw a bead of blood to the surface, this time entirely unintentionally.

"Gods, you're so fucking hard," he growls, wishing he'd thought to install a mirrored panel on his ceiling so he might watch the play of muscles on Asta's shoulders and back - not that he isn't a dark and breathtaking sight already. Hiccuping in a breath as a surge of pleasure crackles through him, likely from a combination of the other man's hand and his cock, it's all Danta can do to hold on, comsumed as he is by each brutal thrust.

Dantalion

// so aim it straight and true //

// with our one foot in the grave //

It’s always a mixture of pain and pleasure for the butcher — blanketed with a layer of blood. It speaks to his chaos, to his need for the trio in order to indulge. Right now? Astaroth is wholly indulging in the blonde beneath him. It's Danta that snatches each second of thought from his mind, spurred on by wishing to draw more growled sentences, to feel the way his body molds to each thrust and each swath of flame that licks and curls against smooth, yet, scarred skin.

He can see the way Danta’s body jolts with each snap of his hips, the fiery hand singing more fur beneath where he presses against the wound, before he’s sliding that hand up to press his thumb against the underside of the Maverick’s jaw. Fire licks against Danta’s lips, singing at the blood from the unintentional fang bite, and he leans in and hovers just barely above the blonde as he intentionally does the same. Sharp teeth nip against the scarring in his mouth, flooding his mouth with iron that has his nostrils flaring, a low breathy hum escaping him as his lips part and the blood drips out onto his already reddened lips, spilling onto Danta’s own lips.

To share, of course. “And you’re so fucking good for me.” The butcher retorts, pressing in as deep as he can go to steal a breathless kiss, cock throbbing hard with the sudden and momentary stillness, even as his hand continues to stroke the other Ancient’s length despite the minimal space.

Astaroth

// while the other one's kicking its way right down to hell //

// you've got a passion in those eyes //

Moaning in anticipation as that strong hand grasps his jaw and his head tilts sharply upward, Danta can smell smoke and feel flame against his lips, his torso, his shoulders, and gods but wouldn't it be a fine idea to just set the room on fire? They are lucky, in a way, that Astaroth is so good at what he does, because as the butcher leans in closer and blots out his vision anew, thoughts of arson are replaced with whatever else the other man's hands and teeth and cock might do given enough time and mischief.

His lips part to say something, only for the hot tang of iron to drip down upon them, Danta's expression twisting to something that might be mistaken for pain if not for the way his hips roll desperately against Asta's and his legs tighten around him, as if there might be more of him to take. As the butcher stills, cock throbbing, pulse jumping in his neck and his lips pressing breathlessly against the Maverick's, the relentless movement of his hand is already enough to have Danta's senses fraying and unspooling.

"Don't stop--" The words leave his lips as a harsh, needy whisper, his hands clutching at the other man even as oblivion starts to yawn in the back of his throat and down the length of his spine.

Dantalion

// so aim it straight and true //

// with our one foot in the grave //

There are many things Astaroth would like to do. Many of them tampered down to this more acceptable version of himself. The kind that teases and plays rather than tortures and butchers. It helps that having the dull ache of the bloodlust in the back of his mind remains more as a visitor knocking at the door rather than a full on invasion, but it keeps the butcher collected despite how Danta unwinds his carefully kept facade.

Fire continues to singe, smoke and steam rising from where the flames burn and boil the blood. He sees Danta’s lips part but he doesn’t stop what his intentions are, dripping his own blood into the mix in a carnal, saccharine dance, even as he pauses in delighting and indulging in his own pleasure to press in and snatch a kiss from the Maverick’s full lips. He may have stopped the movement of his hips, as his heart continues to thunder against his neck, but his hand doesn’t — trying to pull Danta over that ledge. He wants him to see stars — not the kind that Safrin boasts, but stars made up of inky voids, ruby starbursts, singing white lines of lightning pleasure streaking throughout the fiery cosmos they have created.

A subconscious part of him is sure Dygra approves, especially as the short huffs of breath leave him with Danta’s nails digging in against parts of his body that do still feel pain as strongly, and it spurs him on. Nosing his way to let the blonde Ancient continue to offer directions or moan praises, the butcher’s bloodied lips are sticky sweet as they trace along the sharp edge of his jaw, up along a high cheekbone, until he reaches Danta’s ear. “I want you to fall apart.” Comes the heavily whispered, Whitebrim husky growl, selfishly starting a slow rock of his hips despite the much faster pace of his hand on the Maverick’s cock. “I want you to not know where you end and where I begin.” It’s a statement that's punctuated with another throb of his length, clear that he’s already so close, he’s just holding out for Danta to break before he does.

Astaroth

// while the other one's kicking its way right down to hell //