[SE] or christ, hold me like a knife

// with our one foot in the grave //

Astaroth snorts lightly at the fired response, amusement in the air for the moment as he heaves a soft hum of agreement. “Fair is fair.” He drawls, biting his tongue against adding I’m sure you’d love to add more onto me after everything I’d put you through. But now isn’t the time or place, and perhaps there never will be for those thoughts.

So instead, the butcher incessantly tugs at Danta’s arm and only releases him when it’s clear the Maverick will be slipping into the bath with him. “My lial shift has returned, so I could certainly trek back there faster.” He muses aloud, utilizing the speed and heat of the volcanic crocodile to surge his way back to the comfort of the Dusklight.

All of those thoughts vanish as Danta blankets him and he sighs in relief, legs adjusting to tangle with the shorter Ancient. His head tilting into the fingers that toy with the edges of wet, black hair. The butcher’s warm arms slip around his middle, pressing him in against his bruised and scarred chest, humming a note as a thought occurs to him. “She had mentioned that she was worried about becoming a monster and that she’s done things that even I would find abhorrent.” His tone is equally as flat as those sea blues, and he sighs a little with it before he closes his eyes to actually enjoy the feel of Danta’s fingers in his hair.

“I am unsure what to make of it.”

Astaroth

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

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

"See? Getting stronger everyday," Danta purrs, clearly pleased to hear that the other man's plethora of shifts is returning, and he melts against Asta's chest and stretches out as best he can, the tip of his tail flicking at the water this way and that. "At least you know if it happens again that stopping for chit-chat doesn't get you anywhere good." Relaxing against the other man and tucking his head against his shoulder, he watches the steam rise from the water with lazy blue eyes.

"Did she, now? That's interesting." He can't help but smile, because in what world can that be true - and of course now the Maverick is dying to find out. "Maybe I'll add that to my list of questions, see if there's any truth to it." Because, naturally, he'll be sharing whatever happens with Asta. That was true even before all of this, and Danta lets out a long sigh as he also sinks into the warm water to enjoy it.

Dantalion

// so aim it straight and true //

// with our one foot in the grave //

“Mm, something like that.” Astaroth answers, which is certainly a good enough response for both statements. Because he hadn’t stopped for chit chatting. He’d stopped so he could get rid of the contents of his stomach. Had felt cornered. Not scared, never scared, but distrustful. That if he wasn’t careful he’d end up in a repeat of being tied down in the Climb.

These are thoughts that vanish so surprisingly easily before they can take root when Danta blankets the scars, his dark gaze watching the way the firelight reflects and plays with the rainbow hues of Danta’s horns where they settle against his shoulder. One of the butcher’s arms tightens, the other lifting to run through blonde hair idly, a mimicry of the tender touch the Theocrats had offered him.

“Please do.” He purrs, knowing full well that the information would be shared, and also offering that playful tease from earlier of just how much the Maverick enjoyed hearing him say please.

He’s contemplative for a moment before he sighs and tucks his bearded chin against one of Danta’s spiked horn. “My largest issue is that I am angry. And I have been limited physically to get it out.” A fiery tornado of rage within the confines of a too bruised body to actually do anything about it.

Astaroth

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

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

Ancients can't purr, but Asta will definitely be able to feel Danta's smug smile pressed against his skin at his remark, his fingers continuing to thread through dark, wet hair, even as small wisps of fire ignite every now and then to help it start to dry. As for his being angry without an outlet, the Maverick lifts his chin ever so slightly to peer up at the other man. 

"I used to have bloodboon magic," he mumbles. "If I still did I'd use it on you right now. Maybe Charlie could help...?" Because Danta can suggest all manner of things, from the truly brutal (murderous sprees against criminals) to the logical (chopping down trees with an axe) to the personal (good, old fashioned sex) but until the butcher is well enough to move without pain, the offers are likely nothing more than pointless and frustrating.

"Want to go burn something?" he asks suddenly. That they can do with magic, and it's as cathartic as anything else in Danta's experience.

Dantalion

// so aim it straight and true //

// with our one foot in the grave //

“Mm, perhaps.” He muses, even if the shell of the reminder of Maea’s own bloodboon on him felt like a slap in the face, even if it had helped him stop coughing up blood. Either way, Charlie isn’t here right now, and the best he can do is try to relax the muscles he’s currently favoring, and soaking up what relief he can with the reflective heat of Danta’s body blanketed over him.

His eyes pop open, a dark brow rising as he fights from falling asleep again with the fire against his hair and the gentle heat of Danta’s fingers threading through, when the suggestion of burning something arises. His head lifts a bit and he peers down at the Theocrat curiously, lips quirking into a smirk of amusement. “What shall we burn, darling?” Acceptance of the answer, while trying to figure out just what they might spend all of his rage into.

Astaroth

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

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

Everything sits as a dark whisper on the tip of Danta's tongue, fuelled by decades of life in The Climb and all the brutality that comes along with it. But then, more specifically this inn, or Maea's home or the Atheneum, until he's forced to bite his tongue and properly consider their options. Letting out a contemplative sigh, eventually the Maverick's gaze moves towards the window and out into the Levinsward.

"We could start a wildfire out there and blame it on lightning strikes," he suggests. "It'll eat anything in its path. Might hit a few of those containers too. Wonder what will happen to the lightning in them." Will they explode? Would it put them in danger? Gods, the not knowing is almost half the fun, isn't it?

Dantalion

// so aim it straight and true //

// with our one foot in the grave //

Silence overtakes Danta, but there’s that flicker of tension between the blonde’s shoulder blades that Astaroth’s fingers draw meaningless designs into, quiet and soaking, relaxing all while simultaneously waiting for the words to leave his lips. When it happens, his head tilts too, peering out the window to see more dark clouds approach, hiding the sun, bringing a crash of rain in with heavy plunks against the glass.

“Mm, as delightful as that sounds, I doubt we will get anywhere with how wet the ground is.” Wildfires were easy in the Climb, where everything was practically just as dry as a bone. “It would likely spark and immediately go out, and I do not think my ego could survive that.” He’s surprised when the deep rumble of a laugh escapes his throat with it, arms tightening around the other man.

Sighing out his humor, his head tilts back against the back of the tub once more. “Perhaps we can write every awful thing we wish to do but cannot, then burn it to hide the evidence?” Less fun, but, maybe it would help to get it out?

Astaroth

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

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

Groaning as Asta is regrettably right - these lightning storms are not the same as those erupting from volcanic activity in The Climb, and their fire will not get far - he's equally as surprised to hear the laugh rumbling from the other man's chest. It's contagious, Danta scoffing into the side of the butcher's neck and shaking his head. "That's entirely fair. I bet everyone in the inn over here would see it happen, too."

Asta's second idea instinctively has Danta's nose scrunching, and the look he gives the taller man is one that suggests he's asking the Maverick to do some weird meditative arts and crafts activity... but hells, given that the butcher is the one to have thrown the idea out there, he doesn't entirely dismiss it. "Fine," he grumbles, "but I get to fold my paper into the shapes of things I don't like." Which can only end well.

Dantalion

// so aim it straight and true //

// with our one foot in the grave //

“Ugh.” A groan slips past his too sharp teeth, exhaling a sigh on the edge of another laugh as the other man tucks his head in against his neck. “My ego, Danta.” He drawls with an air of dramatics fit for anyone attempting to have a pity party.

As for writing things down on paper to scorch, he fully expects Danta to deny it outright. There’s clear surprise that flickers across his face that the Maverick would likely feel as opposed to see, and he snorts lightly. “So long as they are not shaped like me, I can deal with that.” Comes another playful tease, fingertips threading blonde hair back from his face before he takes a page out of Danta’s book and slips some of the fire from the fireplace toward threading into the golden hair in streaks of fiery gold. “I am intrigued to see your origami skills.”

Astaroth

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

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

"I'll stroke it for you later to make up for it," Danta purrs, reaching up to tug playfully at one of the butcher's dark horns. "And I could never shape any of them like you." No, but literally. He could never do that - his skills with origami, as Astaroth will very soon realise, are fucking terrible. But all the more reason for them to occupy their minds with it, right?

Sitting up a fraction out of the water now that they have something of a plan to deal with the other man's anger issues, it's with fire wreathing him like a halo that Danta smirks down at Asta. "It's settled, then. You stay here, and I'll get your clothes and some sub-par arts and craft supplies, and we'll sit up here as long as you want and feed the fire. Deal?"

Dantalion

// so aim it straight and true //

// with our one foot in the grave //

“You had better.” Astaroth rumbles with a snort and a playful bounce of his brows as Danta tugs on a black pronged horn. His head adjusts with it slightly and his grin shifts brighter at the admission that nothing could be quite like him. Whether it was flattering or Danta’s skills weren’t as good as the butcher assumes, he doesn’t care. He chooses to believe (and soon be proven wrong) that the other man’s arts and crafts abilities were in a league above the rest.

That grin remains when Danta sits up, the fire he’d caressed around his head reflects in the dark honey of his eyes, a devilish halo that now laps at the rainbow edges of each of the Theocrat’s pronged horns. A coy look suddenly has his head tilting despite the grin that remains. “You have yourself a deal, darling.” He drawls, coaxing the fire down toward the blonde’s lips in a kiss of flame, releasing him to collect whatever items he needed to collect.

And his clothes, because he’ll certainly need those to leave this room eventually.

Astaroth

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

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

"There was a time where making a deal with you was one of the most dangerous things you could do in The Climb," Danta drawls, the fire leaving his lips warm and hot, his amusement palpable between them. "And look at me now." Scoffing and leaning in tantalisingly close as he climbs out of the tub, it takes only a few minutes and some living tendrils of flame to dry the Maverick off, allowing him to tug his pants back on and shrug into a shirt that he leaves open.

Departing for only a few minutes, it's nevertheless more than enough time for Asta to get himself dry - or not, if he'd prefer to continue lounging in the bath - or pick at more of the breakfast. On his return, Danta brings a small stack of parchment, a couple of pencils, and the butcher's clothes, clean and pressed and neatly folded. "I've a mind to throw this all in the fire," the Maverick says with a smirk. "Just so I don't come across as being so domestic."

Dantalion

// so aim it straight and true //

// with our one foot in the grave //

Watching as the flame disperses from the Maverick’s lips, the butcher’s own twists into a small smirk especially as the blonde gets closer, however temporary it might be. “Look at you now. You have survived two.” Astaroth rumbles lightly, sinking into the hot water even more as he watches Danta slip his clothes back on. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t miss the number of favors owed to him from a variety of others back in the day, a thought that has him wondering whether or not he should pick it back up.

It gives him time to think while the Theocrat departs the bedroom, as well as enough time to peel himself from the warmth of the bath and dry himself off in a bath of flame, so that when Danta returns he’s both already dry as well as picking at the breakfast some more, dark eyes sliding toward him as the door opens and swings shut. Rolling his eyes with a light touch of affection, he reaches out to collect the clothes. “Ah, but then I would be forced to stay up here like a damsel in distress until someone took pity enough to clothe me.” Sarcasm drips from his lips, even if it was partially true. The idea of him going anywhere without clothes was laughable. In which, he could just escape as a fyrhund, though something tells him those within this inn wouldn’t appreciate such a sight.

Stubbornly, without asking for help, the butcher settles on the edge of the bed, trying to bend just enough to get his pants on, jaw tightening with the way it presses on sore bruises, slipping one leg into the pants before the second follows it and he stiffly stands to button up the nice slacks, before his hands lift to comb his hair back. He’s still shirtless, but he sits further up on the bed to make room for Danta and their chosen activity, dark eyes tracking the Maverick. “Would you like to go first?” He asks with a smirk, tail waving behind him in the bed like a lazy feline.

Astaroth

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

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

"Joke's on you Asta - no one would take pity on you, they'd just stare at you through the keyhole," Danta quips with a smirk, surrendering the clothes to the other man so he can stubbornly go about dressing himself (halfway at least). Slumping down on the bed beside him and pushing some of the pieces of parchment towards the butcher along with one of the pencils, Danta shrugs his shoulders and is already beginning to scrawl.

There are a lot of awful things that the Maverick wants to do but either can't or won't, more than will likely fit on one bit of parchment, but still, he writes until there's no room left, and it's surprisingly easy to fill the space with words. Things he'd do if he could indulge his bloodlust the way he used to; revenge he'd take on behalf of himself and Asta both, ways he'd take out his anger on the land and people around them.

In the end, though, it's all folded into a clumsy shape that almost looks like a vegetable, and Danta tosses it into the fire. "Broccoli," he clarifies. "I don't like broccoli."

Dantalion

// so aim it straight and true //