[SE] or christ, hold me like a knife

// with our one foot in the grave //

The anger and tension are palpable in the air and the way Danta’s jaw clenches, and Astaroth’s own jaw tightens a fraction, lips forming a tight line. He sighs, admittedly in an amount of grumpy relief to feel Danta’s face press on against his dark, sleep tousled hair. His arm tightens and the butcher leans in harder even if it causes him pain, to try and offer some extra amount of comfort to the rage building. Like he can be a blanket to snuff out the fire of anger.

“What do you want to do?” He asks, clearly at a loss for himself if strength isn’t it. Yes, he said he’d kill her, but the second she gave her permission for it he was less inclined. That was something that made it feel as if he was doing her a favor, and the rage within him certainly wouldn’t allow that.

He presses in a little harder, trying to set his empty mug beside Danta’s and effectively blankets the Maverick, utilizing the extra boon to sit himself up a little with a hiss, trying to catch his blue gaze.

Astaroth

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

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

Brows furrowing in confusion to feel Asta lean across him, Danta has a scolding ready on his tongue for the butcher not being more careful before he realises it's intentional, leaving him blinking up into honey dark eyes with murder on his mind and the words locked and loaded on his tongue.

The things he'd imagined would be considered hideous even by a man named the Butcher of Whitebrim, of that he's certain, and they range from the ironic to the emotional. Shaking his head gently, he realises that of all the things he might say, only one is entirely clear.

"I want to fight your battles for you," he says softly and quietly, even as images of dark wings and outstretched talons continue to dance behind his eyes. "And it's got nothing to do with being Theocrat of this place."

Dantalion

// so aim it straight and true //

// with our one foot in the grave //

Honey dark eyes meet shadowed blues, the firelight flickering vibrantly to reveal the clouds of anger hidden and yet registered, because the butcher is nothing if not able to recognize what it’s like looking into a mirror. A mirror that cracks and breaks as soon as Danta’s shaking his head and his words leave him.

There’s a blink of surprise, momentarily frozen as it registers, as it has to break through barriers of walls he’s had up for years. It breaks into parts of his mind he didn’t even know existed. And it’s that strange sensation that has the butcher, despite the pain and soreness, bolstered in his state of hovering over the other man to actually settle into his lap.

Straddling the Maverick’s lap, swallowing down the pain that’s sharpened in his torso as he moves, the battered, dark haired Ancient reaches up with both free hands to cradle Danta’s face, eyes searching his face as the hands try to alleviate that incredibly sharp cut of tension through his jaw. In his searching, he finds something, though what it is remains locked behind too sharp teeth. “This is… A foreign feeling for me, darling.” He admits quietly, leaning forward to press his forehead against the blonde’s, exhaling a soft breath. “But I too have felt a certain.. Protectiveness. Involving you.” Something he would have never thought he'd admit to, but if they’re sharing secrets… well.

Perhaps he doesn’t have to keep wondering what this feeling is.

Astaroth

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

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

Or perhaps he'll need to keep wondering for a while longer - perhaps forever - because the second the words leave Danta's tongue and the other man is in his lap, things start to feel real to the point of walls closing in, and the Maverick's lips part and a hand comes up to clasp Asta's wrist as if to stay his fingers from doing any more wandering. "What... what I mean is that I'm liable to overstep, and I know that isn't something you want," he mutters, his eyes dropping insistently towards Asta's lap.

"And so if you don't know what to do about this, then I will make myself be okay with doing nothing for now." He nods stiffly. "...Just... you know. Say the word, if you want anyone flayed." Sorry all but ripples out of him, not that he can look at the butcher's face to see if his lips will form the word, but it's all he's got right now.

Dantalion

// so aim it straight and true //

// with our one foot in the grave //

It happens simultaneously too fast and so slow, a stress building within him that is certainly not caused by the bruises on his body with the first movement from Danta – capturing his wrist that he gives over into immediately, stilling, and when the words leave and the blue of the Theocrat’s eyes look anywhere but his face, the butcher is quite certain he’s misread the entire situation. “Oh.” Comes the blunt answer, nothing else on his tongue, no eloquence, no charm, no taunting or teasing.

Instead, just an awkward sensation he doesn’t know how to place. So, like with most things, the dark haired Ancient withdraws, especially when Danta continues to speak. And even if it hurts to move and the soreness is evident in the stiff movements he harbors, the butcher fights through it to pull his hand back, to utilize the fact that he’s currently settled onto Danta’s lap by the edge of the bed, trying to make it look like his blunder was on purpose.

He stands, bruised back to Danta as he tightens his jaw, keeping the amount of sheer pain he’s in from being visible even if his tail gives him away with its quiet anxious flicking, winding around his leg. He moves to the fireplace, leaning against the mantle with one arm crossed over his chest while he lets the other dangle in the flames, letting the wisps of fire curl against his fingertips in just as fleeting moments as that misread admission was.

So he clears his throat, the butcher trying to return to that arrogant, charming bastard that the Climb had known (the Mighty Astaroth) – closing himself off. “The issue is that it could be seen as me utilizing our friendship and your position within the region to enact my… Personal problems.” His nose wrinkles, tail still flicking before he takes his fire hot hand and rakes it through his hair, finger combing it back (subconsciously chasing the lost sensation of Danta’s fingers threading through).

“I am the Butcher of Whitebrim.” I am a nightmare, a scary story told to children to make them behave. “Centuries in stone have made me forget myself.” I have become too soft. “They have forgotten, too.”

The hand drops from his hair to coax a stream of fire up to his chest, spreading and flattening it out against the heaviest parts of the bruises. "They will soon be reminded." If Maea thought he was bad now, well.

He's been worse.

Astaroth

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

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

Oh, the other man says, and Danta barely has time to form the words in his mind before Astaroth is sliding out of his lap and the yawning space between them is somehow worse than the cage of his body had been. ”Asta,” he begins, fidgeting and looking to the ceiling for help, only for the sight of the bruised Ancient prowling across to the fireplace to steal his attention entirely.

Quite why Danta needs to push Asta away only to want to instantly follow him is something that likely needs several (dozen) sessions of therapy to unpick. But they aren’t in therapy - instead the Maverick is left watching the butcher’s firelit silhouette as promises of violence and horror drip from his lips and, naturally, it’s one of the hottest fucking things he’s ever seen.

Uninjured as he is, Danta’s footsteps are silent as he slips from the bed and crosses the room, all but draping against Asta’s back. ”This is… a foreign feeling for me too,” he whispers, the words a bit too quick, mumbled against bruised skin. ”But it seems to me that the best thing I can do for you right now, as Theocrat and as… as this,” This being pressed flush against the other Ancient’s skin, his tail curling around Asta’s leg, ”is to indulge you, however that looks. Just keep it out of the Inner Quarter, or I’ll have to answer questions.”

Dantalion

// so aim it straight and true //

// with our one foot in the grave //

Danta’s voice is soft enough that the blood in his ears make it all but impossible to hear his name. It allows him the moment of seeking out the heat of the fireplace, so as to not become that cage that the Maverick has immediately retreated against. And all the while the only thoughts in his head are closing off, shutting doors that seem to be opening, closing himself off from warmth and hope that had always been such a fleeting prospect in his life that he realizes he should have left it lie.

That is, until he’s made his vow, blanketed his skin in fire, only to find the press of the blonde at his back. His hand curls into a slight fist, unsure what the point of this contact is, if not to try and soothe or backtrack. None of it comes, though, instead a secret and silent admission hidden from the Butcher’s sight — but he doesn’t need to see it to realize he had not misread the situation or heard.

Just that it’s a concept neither of them know or really understand, summed up quite succinctly with the this that falls from the Theocrat’s perfect lips.

The hardened, closed off walls remain, but there’s a crack of acceptance through it as the fire that coats his chest is soon guided to let a wisp of it curl against the blonde’s cheek, opposite of the one pressed into his scarred, bruised back. His own tail uncurls from his leg and is replaced by Danta’s own while his snakes around the other man’s leg, like a silent vow or handshake meant to either answer that he’d keep his horrific proclivities to outside of the Inner Quarter or that he’s agreeing to whatever this is.

“You have my word.” He vows, ignoring the obvious earlier whisper because fuck, he doesn’t want the other man to recoil as hard as he just has moments before. “It will be bloody and vicious, though I imagine you already knew that.” Comes that deep Whitebrim accented drawl, partially numbed and unfeeling, even as he gives in and tilts his head back with a slow inhale just enough that the dark finger combed locks brush against diamond horns and the fire he’s manipulating curve up Danta’s jaw in a violent caress.

Astaroth

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

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

"I would expect nothing less," Danta mumbles against abused and fire-warmed skin, his head tilting into the caress of flames, his fingers strumming carefully down the ladder of the other man's ribs. "There's only so many times someone can be called a monster before they start acting like one." Again, he might have added, because it's true that since coming to the Hollowed Grounds, they've been walking the line of civilised quite decently in his opinion.

"I will be speaking to her," he adds, almost as an afterthought. Words are by far the tamest of the outcomes Danta had let unfurl in his imagination, after all. "But I'll leave whatever else happens up to you, unless you ask for me." To train, to partake, to cover up - whatever it happens to be. Whether this is a short-lived spree until the butcher feels better or a permanent return to how things were, clearly the Maverick cares little for the consequences so long as Asta feels more like himself.

Nosing up until he can press his lips to the underside of the other man's jaw, Danta's arms slip around him properly, fire blossoming beneath his every touch and caress. "I can send for your clothes whenever you like, by the way," he says, the hint of a smile in his words as if neither of them have realised the butcher is still stark naked. "I'll even help dress you, if you say please."

Dantalion

// so aim it straight and true //

// with our one foot in the grave //

Humming a note of agreement, Astaroth’s dark gaze lingers in the flickering fire as Danta’s fingers dance along his ribs. They have been civilized. Astaroth has been trying to run this delicate balance of not being too much while simultaneously trying to learn about all the changes that have occurred in his centuries of sleep. For now, though, he thinks he’s got enough of a handle on it to delve in, point all of his attention into training and strengthening the weaknesses sustained in centuries of stone.

As for speaking to her, the butcher’s nose wrinkles slightly and he closes his eyes, soothed only by the fact that any action would be his own. Perhaps the Theocrat will simply be giving a warning. But he concedes, hand dropping to rest along an arm that winds around him, until warm lips press up against his bearded jaw, and Astaroth feels an awkward mixture of who he was and who he’s been surge to clash within him.

Maybe both have a place in the hollow cathedral that makes up his body. Maybe it’s worth a try to find out.

He twists in Danta’s embrace, tail uncurling from the other man to help him face him, though there isn’t any scanning of the Maverick’s face, only a bullied push into pressing the blonde’s back into the mantle, completely invading what space was there to steal a real kiss, something greedy and demanding within it before he breaks it before it can become too close to feeling like it’s desperate.

“If I say please, mm?” Comes the same drawl, pulling away from Danta back toward breakfast, suddenly quite starved. He plucks a piece of bacon from the tray and begins to devour it, sharp teeth making little work of tearing the bites off. “I should like to take another bath, first, to soothe my muscles.” But here is when he does look at Danta more fully, dark eyes harboring more of the Butcher and less of the reawakened Astaroth, but a glimpse in them is conveyed well enough. Would you like to join me?

Astaroth

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

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

Danta isn't sure what he's expecting, but he's certainly not complaining as the butcher suddenly twists in his arms, catching lips that are still half forming a question. Humming indulgently and letting the words die so his tongue might do altogether more interesting activities, the Maverick's hands have already plunged into dark hair and his mind is thinking of how many bruises he might kiss better by the time Asta draws away.

"Mm, you heard. I assume you aren't forgoing the veneer of politeness," he says, still leaning against the mantle to enjoy the fire lapping at his back and shoulders while the other man goes after the breakfast set out. The offer of a bath, though, has Danta very willingly prowling forward, offering the taller Ancient a fanged smirk as he heads straight for the tub to turn on the taps. "Now that is a wise idea," he agrees, shifting to sit on the lip of the bathtub to gaze back at Asta.

"The sooner these start to fade, the sooner we can train and I can replace them," he points out with a wicked smile.

Dantalion

// so aim it straight and true //

// with our one foot in the grave //

He can certainly try to kiss all the bruises away. It’s not like the butcher would stop the attempts. If anything it would soothe the slight burn of the blunder. Those hands dragging through his hair is a sensation that Astaroth chases internally, even as he forces himself to pull away, drifting like a ghost toward the tray of breakfast.

“That depends, darling.” He says after another bite, snorting slightly. “But I suppose I can make an exception to be especially polite to you.” If that’s what Danta wanted, he would do it. It seems crystal clear now that the only person in Caido he would allow to hold his leash, is the Theocrat himself.

The question of the bath arrives and Danta already prowls over to get it ready, and Astaroth takes a bit of time to let it fill as he devours as much as he can stomach for the moment. And he starts to step over, still stiffly, but smoothly enough that it seems he’s gotten used to the soreness. He leans in, hand trailing through the hot water with a sigh of relief, angling his head toward the blonde with his equally wicked, but exceptional sharp, grin. “I shan’t go easy on you either, my dear, but I shall make it up to you after.” He decides with a smirk crossing his face, before he absolutely gets into Danta’s space to maneuver his way into the bath, face dangerously close to the Maverick’s lips and neck as he does so, before he settles with an impossible to hide sigh of relief.

Astaroth

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

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

"I wouldn't want you to spoil your reputation entirely," Danta purrs back to Astaroth. Gentleman monster has such a lovely ring to it, and whilst the balance might skew one way or another these days, it doesn't change the whole. "And I love it when you say please," he adds with a dark and mischievous glitter in his eyes. Of course the Maverick stubbornly stays put, too, as the other man approaches to test the temperature, putting Asta's sharp teeth very close indeed to his jugular, before he settles into the water.

"Promises, promises," he teases, still perched at the side of the tub and reaching out to plunge a fiery hand into the water so it hisses and bubbles, raising the temperature to something an Ancient is much more likely to enjoy. "I'll take a bruise from you and wear it with pride - if you can put one on me." The banter is easy, and it almost makes Danta ache with the knowledge that it comes on the heels of something arguably as painful as what put the marks on the butcher's body.

Perhaps that explains why his hand emerges from the hot water so he might brush his fingers gently across Asta's cheek. "It's going to be okay," he says suddenly, the words a surprise on his own tongue. "I should have said it yesterday, I know. But... it is, one way or another."

Dantalion

// so aim it straight and true //

// with our one foot in the grave //

“Of course you do.” The butcher hums, though knowing fully well the only one that could make him beg was the man settled on the edge of the tub. A realization that settles in those cracks in the wall recently reinforced.

He sinks into the tub comfortably, once his sore muscles start to soak up the heat, and he leans back enough to rest his head against the back of the tub, dark eyes watching the Maverick’s hand dip into the water and add additional heat, so much that it has his tail curling in delight, the wet spaded edge brushing gently against the other man’s arm.

“If I can put one on you? I have put many over the years.” And some as of late had been far more intimate. Either way, the banter is easy, it’s comfortable, it doesn’t let him think about everything he’d endured. At least, not until that hot hand brushes against his cheek and his blink stutters as he glances up to meet the Maverick’s blue gaze, the softness of his tone, surprised to hear such a thing as much as Danta’s surprised it’s left his lips.

Nodding, his tongue clicks before he speaks. “I know, darling.” He’d said it in so little words yesterday, in the way he held him at the windowsill, at the way he’d taken care of him. “It is an opportunity and a reminder for me that it will not happen again.” He shrugs slightly, before his own heated hand lifts to run gently along Danta’s forearm, a light little tug to see if he wants to get in, too.

“What do you intend to talk to her about?” He asks, suddenly curious, dark honey eyes locked on Danta’s face.

Astaroth

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

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

"I have let you put a good number on me over the years, yes," Danta fires right back, a shit-eating grin on his face now even as his fingers brush across the other man's bearded cheek. "So it only seems fair to let you have another try." His smile fades but doesn't disappear entirely as Asta's hand tugs at his forearm, and the Maverick rises to his feet to wriggle out of his pants obligingly.

"Mm, that's what I like to hear," he agrees. "And if it does happen again, I hope that fyrhund shift of yours takes you straight back to the Dusklight without stopping." Clearly it still stings that everything that had taken place had done so when there was fuck all Danta could do about it, and though his brow furrows at the memory, the expression melts into a reluctant sort of bliss as he sinks into the water as well.

All but blanketing Asta with his body, the Maverick's arms shift to drape over the edge of the tub where he can play with the tips of the other man's dark hair. "I plan to ask her why she hurt my friend," he says honestly, eyes flat. "And where, in all her preaching kindness and compassion, did it give her the right to do that to you."

Dantalion

// so aim it straight and true //