hold you to the light, let you shine

// as long as there's bread and as long as there's an appetite //

It’s the tapping of the steel in the boots that give away the fact that Danta is approaching – because the butcher inherently knows the cadence of his walk, the unique taps of each footfall, allowing him to turn precisely at the time the butcher steps up to his side. Taking in the opposite color scheme, the tight pants and the loose and sheer crimson shirt (his usual color, might he add), he’s flashing that same grin toward him in greeting but it seems to be tinged with something else. Awe.

“You look beautiful.” He hums before he has a chance to think over what he says, even if his chin ducks a touch sheepishly to have it said so boldly out in public. Not that he should care, but, it still feels… Strange. New. Like bringing attention to it is like staring down a wild bird, spooking it away into the underbrush.

Offering out his arm for the Maverick, Astaroth flashes a brighter grin now, and the second that Danta takes his arm, he’s already beginning to move along the path well worn and familiar by now, to a very stylish boutique along the main stretch of the Last Whisper. “Have you thought of the styles you might torment me with?” He asks, turning his dark gaze down toward the other Ancient with a deep whisper of a laugh.

Astaroth

// as long as everyone you need is stepping in line, you are camouflaged //

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

"You are too kind," Danta croons back, thankfully taking the compliment in stride despite how sincere he knows the words have been. He does reach up to gently clasp the other man's jaw as if in silent appreciation of it, squeezing before releasing Asta once again and slipping his arm through the butcher's. Back down into the Last Whisper they go, meandering down the main stretch and towards a (very well-known, at this point) tailors that always seems to be open conveniently late. Just when one of its best customers might decide to pay a visit, as it happens.

"Astaroth, I have been thinking of the styles I might torment you with for seasons," the Maverick purrs, tilting his head up at the taller man and offering him a saccharine smile that gives absolutely nothing away. Asta will just have to wait and see, won't he? Regardless, as they step inside the warmly lit boutique to the tinkling of a bell overhead, already the tailor is lighting up at the sight of the butcher and the Theocrat, gesturing for them to follow him further into the shop for what is certain to be an interesting hour or two.

Dantalion

// as long as there's bread and as long as there's an appetite //

Humming a note that seems to say I know I am, the butcher doesn’t seem to say much else as Danta’s arm hooks into his and they head down toward one of – if not the place the butcher spends the most time if not at the Dusklight. And its with a nearly silent and content walk that the butcher’s surprised raise of his brow greets the saccharine smile the blonde shoots him – one, for saying his full name because that hasn’t been a thing in a while it feels like, and for two, he’s already gotten a mixture of dread at the thought.

Either way, he shoots back that too sharp grin in response. “All seasons?” He asks, already imagining which types of festive seasonal outfits the Maverick intends to torment him with, when the excitement from the tailor meets them and he’s easily swanning through the boutique toward the back. Just as he said, within this area is a nice closed off space littered with fabrics and different types of mannequins, different styles (many of which seem inspired by what Astaroth typically wears), and beside the little podium lit with candles and a full spread of mirrors is that lounge chair he had mentioned. It’s gold and black and plush as can be, a curved top to make laying there or propping up on the edge to watch all that much more comfortable, and only when it’s in sight does he release Danta to speak to the tailor who’s already gushing about new patterns and fabrics he’s found.

“I will have to look at those next time. Today’s venture is whatever he chooses for me, crafted by your knowing hands.” He says, gesturing to the Maverick, to which the tailor positively beams at. Gushing for a moment about what kind of honor it was to craft the Theocrat’s vision on such a patient model, and while that happens, Astaroth is already shrugging out of the waistcoat, readying himself for the measurements.

Astaroth

// as long as everyone you need is stepping in line, you are camouflaged //

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

"Now I wouldn't go that far," Danta purrs - all seasons implies that he's been thinking of something that might keep the butcher warm or comfortable or at all prepared for the weather, which... have you met the Maverick? Asta is more likely to emerge wearing a ball gag and something that wishes it was underwear. Ahem - anyway.

It's the first time he's visited the tailor in a very long while, such that he's very easily distracted by the fabrics on offer, by the designs that look ever-so-much like the things Asta wears or would like to wear, and with the tailor himself so overjoyed by their presence, it's clear that if nothing else, at least one place in the Grounds is very pleased that they are living here.

Following them out into the boutique and eyeing up the plush lounge, Danta is about to take a seat before he's reminded, all of a sudden, that he is the designer in all of this. With something akin to excitement dancing in his blue eyes, he ushers the tailor to one side while Asta prepares himself, clearly not wanting the butcher to overhear.

There are a few oohs and aaahs and some scribbling and sketching, as well as a suggestion for buckles and other ties, before both Maverick and tailor return, each looking pleased as punch. "Alright, let's do this," he decides, flopping onto the couch for some well-earned ogling.

Dantalion

// as long as there's bread and as long as there's an appetite //

Already starting to get ready, slipping out of the waistcoat and anything else that might block the perfect measurements (despite how the tailor likely has a record of any changes at this point with how often the butcher shows up on this very podium), he can’t help but to notice how strangely quiet it’s gotten – and as he steps up onto the podium, his attention and body twist partially to look back at the two conspirators.

Dread already settles in his gut, a touch exasperated already to see the bright excitement lingering in the tailors face, and something that glimmers pleased as punch in the Maverick’s own. Affectionately rolling his eyes, he turns back toward the mirror and clears his throat, side eyeing Danta from where he flops down onto the couch. “I wait with bated breath.” Astaroth hums, his tone flat, but there’s a glimmer of amusement in his dark irises that makes it seem like he's actually intrigued as to what blasphemy the Maverick wants him to wear.

Shifting a touch to keep his posture just as straight, he listens as the tailor comments on his height as he always does, adjusting the measurements to suit his lanky appearance. Once the measurements are made, the tailor vanishes for a brief moment to retrieve some fabric and already remade adjusted designs and a huge stack of pins to get started pinning things, before gesturing for Danta to approach to see if he has any personal insights. “I would prefer to not be stabbed... Too many times, at least.” The butcher offers to Danta as he shrugs out of his shirt, flashing his own saccharinely sharp smile back.

Astaroth

// as long as everyone you need is stepping in line, you are camouflaged //

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

"As you should," Danta purrs, stretching out on the couch to watch Asta on the podium, drawn up to his full height and idly fussing at his shirt, and gods, were it not for the tailor's presence there might already be fabric everywhere (perhaps even bunched between the Maverick's teeth for something to bite down on). "And don't you besmirch this wonderful man's creations, whatever you think of them in the end," he continues, flashing the tailor a wink for his trouble and settling back to enjoy watching the brief fight with the tape measure.

With that done and some fabric already procured - a tight herringbone weave so dark as to almost absorb the light around it - Danta absolutely does have some personal insights to offer, cool eyes positively gleaming as he rolls to his feet to approach the podium. "I would never," he hisses, even as he accepts some of the pins from the tailor and prowls around to Asta's bare shoulders and the muscled planes of his back. "Not unless you ask me, anyway."

That's all the other man will get from him for now, since he becomes very much absorbed in his conversation with the tailor. Asta will feel, at least, the way the Maverick's long fingers map a panel along his shoulder blades and down, as if the material here would be made from something different entirely. (Unbeknownst to the butcher, of course, Danta intends for it to merely be missing).

Dantalion

// as long as there's bread and as long as there's an appetite //

A playful gasp slips from the butcher, before it breaks into a deep chuckle of a laugh, shaking his head ever so slightly to not jostle the work the tailor is working on. “I would never.” And it’s true – he quite likes the tailor. The majority of his clothes are crafted by him these days, and if it weren’t for having more clothes than days in the week, he might continue to overload his closets with styles after styles.

Maybe he’ll infiltrate Danta’s closet next?

Dark eyes spot the fabric immediately, and it’s a look of nothing but being impressed to see the pattern in the fabric – the heaviness to it that would (in theory) provide warmth (if it wasn’t going to be half missing). “Is that so?” Astaroth hums as he both watches in the reflection and feels the featherlight touch of the blonde’s fingertips along his shoulder blades and down his spine, unable to keep the goosebumps from rising along the tops of his shoulders – away from the scar tissue. He watches curiously, still, as the tailor sets the fabric against his skin, pinning with Danta’s help this way and that, before the sharp snip of scissors cuts the air and any warmth he thought he was keeping is immediately gone in lieu of the open back design. "This is an interesting choice." Astaroth hums, feeling like nothing more than just a mannequin being dressed.

Astaroth

// as long as everyone you need is stepping in line, you are camouflaged //

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

Completely unaware of the future assaults on his closet, Danta instead focuses on playing assistant to the tailor any which way he can, holding the fabric steady to let him pin and cut and maybe allowing his hand to ghost sneakily down the length of Asta's back since he has to hold still and can't do anything about it. 

Once the panel has been safely snipped away, the Maverick steps back to look it over properly and nods his approval to the tailor. "Perhaps something just here, too?" he suggests, walking his fingertips along the butcher's shoulder blades where another slip of fabric might sit. With all of that established, Danta nods towards the leather he knows comes next before grinning at Asta in the mirror.

"You will look the best you ever have," he assures him, raising an eyebrow as if begging for disagreement.

Dantalion

// as long as there's bread and as long as there's an appetite //

Eager to please both the Maverick and the butcher, the tailor makes quick work of the cuts and snips needed – utilizing his magic to curve and form the piece into precisely what he seeks. A few little additions here and there made by hand with the quick work of a needle and thread, Astaroth focuses straight ahead as the fashion assault is made. At least, though, he clings to the touch of the Maverick, evidenced in ways he tries to hide, but is given away with the way his tail flicks slightly with each sweeping stroke and the goosebumps that continue to spread.

The butcher meets Danta’s look in the mirror and snorts, words on the tip of his tongue to completely disagree but thinks better of it as he dips his chin slightly. “I am positive that I will.” It’s a blatant lie, but the sweet smile shot toward the reflection is one that Danta may see through. Completely unaware of what comes next, the tailor’s already grabbing the leather once the shirt is finished up, returning and utilizing his magic to form it however the Maverick wishes and allows him to place it wherever he so chooses.

Astaroth

// as long as everyone you need is stepping in line, you are camouflaged //

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

"You are very good at what you do," Danta purrs to the tailor, ready with as many compliments as the man needs to get his work done to its usual pristine standard, even as his hand continues to casually rest against one of Asta's hips. With the shirt ready for finishing touches, the Maverick all but beams as the tailor produces the leather, and he steps away if for no other reason than to inspect the cuts of it.

For the butcher's legs - because of course Danta plans to clad him in leather pants - he chooses something supple and matte, almost suede but dark as night. Easy to move in but tight and unforgiving enough that there won't be anywhere to hide, so to speak. And for that he trusts the tailor's judgement entirely, because what the Maverick is really interested requires leather just as soft, but a good deal sturdier.

And thus Asta will find Danta standing before him, all smiles with the tailor at his elbow as he reaches out to gently cup his jaw, intending on crafting a mask to cover his nose and mouth. Not a muzzle, not necessarily, but if it does the job all the same, who is he to complain?

Dantalion

// as long as there's bread and as long as there's an appetite //

The tailor wants nothing more than to hear all the praises Danta has to offer, and so he works with precision and pride, crafting the Maverick’s vision as close to truth as possible. And Astaroth is as perfect of a model as can be, moving wherever way the tailor needs, standing still as can be whenever required. And when the leather comes out, the tailor already has the measurements down – shrinking them here and there to get it exactly as moveable and tight as Danta wishes, utilizing his magic and craft to work on finishing them up for him to try on while the Maverick grasps the butcher’s jaw and inspects it.

Asta’s gaze dips to meet those bright blues, the hand still smelling of smoke and citrus that cups his bearded jaw, and it’s light the lightbulb goes off with the intensity of which Danta’s focused on the bottom half of his face. “A muzzle?” He nearly half whispers, raising a dark brow as to not mess with the inspection the other Ancient is in the process of doing. And shortly after the statement is made, the tailor is handing him those tight pants and telling him to go slip them on.

Flashing a too sharp smile with a hint of confusion in it, he reaches up and ghosts a touch along Danta’s sharp cheekbone before he does just that – returning with pants that truthfully leave little to the imagination and the shirt paired with – cutting a menacingly sexy figure. “Was it your intention to have these so tight?” He asks, despite knowing the answer already, dark eyes glimmering with a hint of amusement as he returns to the podium, ready for the next step.

Astaroth

// as long as everyone you need is stepping in line, you are camouflaged //

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

"A mask," Danta corrects with a lopsided smile that absolutely betrays the fact that the semantics don't mean a damn thing. "How else are you supposed to look appropriately intimidating while you're patrolling the Dusklight?" Shrugging his shoulders and tilting his head into the touch to his cheek, Danta lets his hand drop and allows the butcher to go and change. 

Whilst he's gone, of course he gushes over the work the tailor has done so far - the shirt is ready to go by the time Asta returns, and the leather pants are exactly as tight as the Maverick envisioned, something that is all too clear in the broad, fanged smile he shoots the other man. "Listen, you need to be a little adventurous," he chastises him, holding up the shirt to help him into it. 

From the front it looks just as crisp and perfect and formal as anything the butcher might normally wear. The back, however; given that most of it is missing, it mainly gives a peek at the brutal scarring covering Asta's body, both warning and evidence of the other man's history.

Dantalion

// as long as there's bread and as long as there's an appetite //

Mask, muzzle, they were all essentially the same as far as the butcher was concerned. But – he can’t complain (too much). He’s already given Danta the green light to craft whatever he wished – and while it wasn’t something he would pick for himself for out in public, well, it certainly was a decent cross so far between his own style and Danta’s own. So for that, it’s rather charming, even if he’s positive it’ll be hell to get out of the leather pants. For now, he’s stuck in them as he returns and the tailor seems like his day has been made tenfold.

Slipping into the shirt with Danta’s help, he straightens up and offers a sigh to the quip offered, even if the smile that curls the corners of his lips betrays any annoyance. “I am unsure how the leather pants might help with me being intimidating, but I will concede.” Because he would do it, wear whatever it was that Danta wished him to, if for nothing else than to say he did.

That and the tailor is working quite hard and quite proud of everything he’s come up with so far, so beyond Astaroth’s usual boundaries that it’s almost like a game for him. A challenge.

The butcher takes a moment to take in the shirt from the front, running his fingers along the herringbone pattern and the way it raises and falls against his chest, before he half turns to see the open back – shooting a curious glance toward Danta at the display and recalling days that the Maverick had mentioned the Dusklight patrons wanted nothing more than to see his scars, before he flashes a saccharine smile. “It’s surprisingly lovely, actually.” Except for the fact that the pants leave nothing to the imagination, nor does the back of the shirt – but he does love the color and he loves the pattern of it at the very least.

It's about this time that the tailor is finishing up the mask, gesturing for Danta to come over to collect it and fit it before checking to see if it needs any adjustments.

Astaroth

// as long as everyone you need is stepping in line, you are camouflaged //

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

"No? We're clearly not looking at the same reflection," Danta purrs; then again, he knows Asta is likely used to his own brand of intimidating, such that he might not consider the overall image he's starting to give off; sleek, deadly and taking no prisoners. It's enough to have Danta's mouth watering, in truth, and it's only the tailor calling him over that forces him to tear his eyes away from the other man.

"You have outdone yourself," he croons to the tailor, accepting the mask between gleeful fingers. "You'll be receiving a lot of business from me at the Dusklight, I can assure you." Enough that he'll likely need to consider taking on an apprentice or two.

Returning to the podium, he tilts his head at Asta as if to ask for permission before he steps forward to slip arms around him, fixing leather and buckles expertly in place until his nose and mouth (and those sharp, sharp teeth) are hidden behind a wall of black leather. "Perfect," he informs him, his tone one of dark satisfaction as he steps aside.

Dantalion