you tell me it feels a little colder

// too many war wounds and not enough wars //

"I didn't want to insult you by assuming you'd want to be carried," Danta sasses tells Asta, his smile as sharp as his words are sweet. Turning as the other man climbs onto the bed, he twists to properly face him so he can slip the muzzle over his nose and mouth.

But of course, before doing just that, the Maverick takes full advantage of the last time he'll be able to kiss the other man this evening, leaning in to press his lips warmly against Asta's. His affection is soft and slow, almost tender compared to what might others might expect from him, and only once he's certain he'll be able to last the whole night without more of it does Danta draw back again.

"You ought to be careful - I could get used to this look," he chastises with a playful smile, meaning of course the lack of obsidian horns for him to catch his fingers on as he clasps the muzzle. It really is a beautiful piece of metalwork, Danta carefully setting each piece in place and ensuring the butcher is comfortable before sitting back, smoothing his dark hair back out of his eyes. "There. Beautiful."

Dantalion

// too few rounds in the ring and not enough settled scores //

// standing, stomping in the damage and the ruins of a slip of tongue //

Snorting at Danta’s reasoning sassing, it definitely is a good point. He hasn’t thought as far as what he might do if the Maverick actually did carry him back to the bed. Would it infantile him while his emotions already feel like they’re a live wire or would he be fine with it? Luckily, they don’t have to find out.

Because he’s settling in front of Danta, letting him have a good long look at him without his horns or tail to accompany the otherwise menacing appearance he always held, and when Danta leans in for another kiss — slow and tender and gentle in the darkness that blooms around them from the dimmed lights, Astaroth feels comfort swell against the rampaging waves of his exhausted panic. And he presses into it, craving it as much as the man itself.

“I’m not nearly as menacing without it. And shorter.” He whines before he promptly shuts his mouth so that Danta’s fingers can ghost across his cheeks and through his hair unbothered by horns to buckle the muzzle into place. Content as well, the comment sparks a fine line to form between his brows as he takes it in momentarily, before shaking his head and rolling his eyes slightly, even if there’s a small half smile forming on his face. “Beautiful?” He drawls as if it’s unbelievable, before he maneuvers and slips into the bed, blanketing Danta and pressing his face into the crook of his neck.

Astaroth

// with tragic consequences, i think that we've all made our gravest mistakes //

// too many war wounds and not enough wars //

"You hardly need to worry about being tall or menacing within the confines of this bed," Danta points out with a shit-eating grin, leaning in a fraction closer to check that the clasps and buckles are properly fastened and, once his compliment and approval has been given, punctuating it with a brief, chaste kiss to the steel where Asta's lips would usually be able to return the favour. "Beautiful," he repeats, shifting all too willingly to lay down so the other man can collapse atop him.

Adjusting the weighted blanket across Asta's back before dragging the other furs and sheets over them as well, it doesn't take long for Danta to get comfortable, and if Ancients were capable of purring he'd be doing so - loudly. Winding his arms around the other man and shivering only once at the press of cold steel against his neck, it doesn't take long for it to warm up, by which time the Maverick is helpfully braiding Asta's dark hait back and out of his face.

"I think," he says slowly, quietly, as if weighing the consequences of saying it, "that this is one of my favourite places to be."

Dantalion

// too few rounds in the ring and not enough settled scores //

// standing, stomping in the damage and the ruins of a slip of tongue //

It’s true — he doesn’t have to worry about it, unless they’re interrupted. In which case, whomever does the interruption would have more than just Astaroth to worry about. The Maverick himself often was more frightening and intimidating than people gave him credit for. And it’s yet another side of the blonde that Astaroth adores, even when he’s faced with the brunt of it.

Hearing the repetition, he concedes the point. He doesn’t question it any further and presses in a touch affectionately to the kiss he can’t return — not until the morning at least. And as the sedatives start to creep in and he settles as a blanket on top of the other man, horns no longer in the way or a tail to wind around the other man’s middle, Astaroth can press in all that much more.

Nestling in as the muzzle warms up, his blinks start to turn slower until they finally close and the admission keeps him from essentially blacking out. “It's mine too.” He mumbles slowly, and with the sedative blocking out the way he would usually hold his tongue from being too sickly sweet, his arms tighten around the Maverick when he exhales out the next admission. “I feel safe.” Which is a big deal given the panic that had gripped him by his throat. And he settles a touch harder against him until he effectively passes out.

Astaroth

// with tragic consequences, i think that we've all made our gravest mistakes //

// too many war wounds and not enough wars //

With heat kindling between them, Danta doesn't feel the need to draw the fire up any further, and so it's in the soft flicker of twilight that he notices Asta begin to relax into sleep. Even so, as his hands finally still in the other man's dark locks, he can't help the private little smile that curls at his lips to hear that Asta feels the same - that he feels safe, even. "You are." The assurance is whispered easily against the crown of his head, Danta letting his eyes slip shut as well. "You are safe."

Not that he expects the words to be enough to keep the horrors from the butcher's subconscious, and as Danta drifts off, it's with the expectation of being awoken only a few hours from now to whatever Asta's nightmares decide to bring them.

So as he begins to awaken naturally, that's the first indicator that something is different, not that Danta is in any position to question it at first. His eyes blink open slowly to the soft morning light streaming in through the bay window, the Maverick huffing out a deep sigh and nestling further into the furs and the man still blanketing him. 

Only then does he realise that neither of them have so much as moved during the night, and his eyes open once again to check, first and foremost, that the butcher is alive. "Asta? Are you okay?" he asks hurriedly, voice rough with sleep but slightly panicked nonetheless.

Dantalion

// too few rounds in the ring and not enough settled scores //

// standing, stomping in the damage and the ruins of a slip of tongue //

It’s that quiet mantra that follows him into sleep, one that’s blissfully nothing as they’re wrapped within the confines of Danta’s comforting words and the sedative blacking him out. It’s a surprisingly blissfully dead sleep, so Danta’s panic is warranted well enough — even if there is a slow heartbeat bumping through his neck. His hair is ruffled more than it had been when he’d fallen asleep, though, and somehow still no horns or tail make an appearance as the sunlight flickers against his bronzed cheeks.

It’s the panicky voice that rouses him, stretching bones that feel so heavy and sleep infused still, twisting slightly enough to press his cheek against the cool pillow through the muzzle. “Mm? Fine, darling, why?” His eyes still haven’t opened and he’s still half asleep even as he tries to wake, loosening any hold that had stuck when he’d fallen asleep — his obsidian horns still appearing and ruffling his hair even more, tail reappearing and curling tightly around Danta’s leg.

Astaroth

// with tragic consequences, i think that we've all made our gravest mistakes //

// too many war wounds and not enough wars //

Thankfully, the sound of the other man's voice is already enough to have Danta relaxing back into the bed, the Maverick turning to check him over properly just as the tell-tale signs of his being an Ancient make their reappearance. Laughing softly and with his heart still hammering in his chest, Danta stretches close enough to tangle himself back against the butcher, tail and horns and all, so he can gently disentangle his hair from its half-braid and the way it's looped around the sharp obsidian tines.

"Good," he says, the words mumbled against the other man's forehead. "It's morning, that's all." And, y'know, we both got a full night's sleep, so either that's very good or we're both dead and this is Mort's realm.

Only when he's finished fussing does he let his fingers drift down to the muzzle instead, gently unbuckling and unclasping it until he can draw it away from the butcher's face. "That medicine really is the good stuff," he remarks with a smirk.

Dantalion

// too few rounds in the ring and not enough settled scores //

// standing, stomping in the damage and the ruins of a slip of tongue //

He doesn’t even notice, still half asleep despite the mental tugs it takes to wake. It isn’t until Danta’s fussing over his hair and pulling the braid from one of the tines of his horns it has loosely looped around. Lips press against his forehead, mumbling words that drag him to finally find the motivation to open his eyes. The punch of his brows is felt before he blinks awake, exhaling a sigh of surprise. “Truly?” He asks, despite how he squints against the light and aims to bury his face again.

He doesn’t get very far as he hears the muzzle unbuckle, shifting reluctantly to let him slip it off — cheeks and beard sporting the indent of how he’d passed out. A hand lifts to rub at his cheek, fixing the indent in his beard at the very least before he tries to wake up further. “If only they could fix the taste.” He laments, because he might be more willing to take it every night to try and ensure no nightmares came to him.

Though something tells him it’s the mixture of his exhaustion and the sedative that had prevented it.

Blinking into more wakefulness, arms squeezing around the Maverick’s warm body, he lets his honeyed gaze focus on the other Ancient as if seeing him for the first time this morning. “Good morning, Danta, darling.” He says softly.

Astaroth

// with tragic consequences, i think that we've all made our gravest mistakes //

// too many war wounds and not enough wars //

"Mmhm," Danta confirms, carefully reaching over the other man's shoulder to set the muzzle down on the bedside table. "Mid-morning, by the sound of the street outside." And by the creaks and rumbles from downstairs that suggest the bar staff are already at work preparing to open the Dusklight for business.

Laughing at the complaint he really ought to have expected by now, Danta lets his arms curl around the other man's shoulders, enjoying the simple warmth and comfort of being able to wake in their own time. "I tell you what - next time we'll put it in some really sweet tea and see if that makes a difference." If it didn't it of course means there'll be more of the vile concoction to drink, but there's no reward without risk, so they say.

Stretching contently against the arms that come to squeeze around him, the Maverick peers down at Asta through cool blue eyes that are also still only half-awake. "Good morning," he purrs in return, leaning in to press his forehead against the butcher's, gently clasping his cheek. "If I suggested right now that we pack up and get away from this place for a few days, what would you say?"

Dantalion

// too few rounds in the ring and not enough settled scores //

// standing, stomping in the damage and the ruins of a slip of tongue //

“Mid-morning?” He asks in surprise, trying to listen for the sounds even if he can’t hear anything more than just the ease of their heartbeats, comfortably relaxing into the bed as he fights to focus. Hearing the clink of glasses suddenly, he fights the yawn that threatens to escape.

Humming a note that seems like he thinks it’s worth a try, he nestles in and squeezes the other man. “Tea sounds divine.” He nearly whines, until the warmth of Danta’s forehead presses against his, and one hand lifts to cup the Ancient’s cheek before rising to fuss over his own mess of golden hair, made brighter in the light filtering in — blinding, but beautiful as he claims his good morning.

Rather than answering immediately, he leans up to press his lips to Danta’s in a mirrored slow kiss of before, before withdrawing slightly to whisper out a “yes” against his lips. Until the actual reality sinks in and he pulls back to let his bright gaze focus on the other Ancient again. “Where to?” He asks, tilting his head into the pillow a bit, the tips of his horns knocking against the headrest.

Astaroth

// with tragic consequences, i think that we've all made our gravest mistakes //

// too many war wounds and not enough wars //

"Mmmmhm," Danta hums, sounding as though he'd like nothing more than to go back to sleep with Asta until it's practically mid-afternoon, but he can all but hear the cogs in the other man's mind start to turn as they shed the rust of slumber. "I meant to go with the sedative," he points out about the tea, though the smile in his voice suggests that he'll go to hang a kettle of water over the fire the second either of them can be bothered to peel themselves out of bed.

Which doesn't seem as if it will be just yet, not as Danta succumbs to the feel of gentle fingers in his hair and soft lips upon his own. Almost melting against Asta, even as the butcher draws back the Maverick is trying to follow, taking the opportunity to be the one to nuzzle against the side of his neck instead. "Torchline," he replies immediately, the words mumbled warmly against his throat. "Torchline at Longheat is one of my favourite places."

Dantalion

// too few rounds in the ring and not enough settled scores //

// standing, stomping in the damage and the ruins of a slip of tongue //

“Ah.” The butcher half mumbles, even if the sentiment is still the same. It does sound divine right now even if he can’t find it in him to get out of bed or let the blonde in his arms escape. No, if anything, his touch is reverent, careful as he threads his fingers through Danta’s blonde, letting the ghost of the smile cross his face as the other Ancient chases after his kiss.

Content with where Danta has settled against his neck, his head adjusts as his heartbeat hums a steady beat beneath the blonde’s lips. “Torchline sounds lovely.” He hums, fingertips running along the tops of diamond horns, eyes half lidded as he chases the rainbow hues cast against his fingers.

“Do you want to leave right now?” He’s feeling leagues better than he had the day before, and with Danta wanting to enjoy Torchline, Astaroth does look forward to the trip — but having the Maverick in his arms like this right now is something he isn’t entirely inclined to give up just yet.

Astaroth

// with tragic consequences, i think that we've all made our gravest mistakes //

// too many war wounds and not enough wars //

"Mm. I want to lay on the beach," Danta agrees, smiling against Asta's throat, each beat of his pulse thrumming across the Maverick's lips as he closes his eyes to enjoy this reversal of positions. "The sand gets so hot." As hot as The Climb might be in some places, he'd argue, though of course their home region doesn't have the benefit of sandy shores or the sound of crashing waves. The touch against his horns provokes a shiver down the length of his spine, Danta's tail flicking contently beneath the blankets even as he nestles further against the other man's neck.

"Not right now, no," he says, because like the butcher, he'll likely put up a fight if he's asked to leave the warmth of his bed and the other Ancient wrapped around him any time soon. "We'll go tomorrow. Gives me time to make sure everything in the Dusklight is in order." And that way, they don't have to even think about it getting up any time soon, let alone putting on real clothes and leaving the building.

Dantalion

// too few rounds in the ring and not enough settled scores //

// standing, stomping in the damage and the ruins of a slip of tongue //

“I would like to read under a parasol.” He decides, not wanting to get sunburnt, but would happily move the parasol this way and that to keep the warmth of the sand within reach. Paired with a good book? It sounded divine. Almost as good as the position they’ve ended up here and now.

Almost.

For now, he keeps himself distracted with the light playing over his fingers and the press of Danta’s lips to his throat, before he sags a little in relief at the idea of not leaving immediately. “Good.” He purrs, before sleep has fully left his bones and he tilts his head a little to press his bearded cheek against Danta’s temple. “I would like to stay here for a while longer.” He admits a touch softer.

Astaroth

// with tragic consequences, i think that we've all made our gravest mistakes //