I told you, you were brave

lord help anyone who stands in my way; for I am not merciful, and i am not kind
and i am not afraid to make you wish that i was

It would be that easy if they didn’t talk about it, if he could reverse the conversation and just smile and nod drunkenly and pretend like everything was fine. That would be easy. In the short term, at least. So he says nothing in response because there’s nothing to say that wouldn’t just prolong this discomfort, as heavy and nauseating as it feels in his gut.

I don’t really believe that, is the thing that lingers in his mind because Danta’s certainly read between the lines, rather than try to prove the point that he’s feeling quite unreasonable with everything, his jaw feathers around another pull from the pipe before it exhales out slowly in a sigh when he speaks. “I won’t go anywhere.” He confirms from the question slated — in case Danta was worried about whether he’d vanish in the interim.

He stares at the fire rather than the blonde when he vanishes, and in the time he’s gone the butcher had returned to his position of before, leaned back in the dark leather chair, boots propped back up, the glass on the desk and the pipe sat beside it with the cherry glowing so dull that it’s going out. His tail continues to flick back and forth like an annoyed cat, fingertips twitching as he manipulates the fire in the fireplace. It’s precisely where Danta finds him when he returns, though the tension in the butcher’s shoulders remain, shrugging a shoulder to Danta’s apology. “It’s fine.” He tries to reiterate, clearing his throat. “Do you… remember what it felt like at the Hanged Man, when you weren’t interested in enjoying the party because of Flora and I?” He asks, jaw working as he keeps his gaze away. “It feels like that. And I understand that it is unreasonable, given everything. I am just… worried.”

Astaroth

say your prayers now

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

It certainly doesn't feel fine, the Maverick nibbling at the inside of his cheek and opening his mouth to speak again only for Asta to beat him to it, and of course Danta falls dutifully quiet to listen. "...Yeah," he mutters, brow furrowing instantly to be reminded of that night, and something in his gut turns to lead as he thinks about it. "I remember." He'd hated it for the most selfish reasons, and even knowing logically how things were, it hadn't stopped the way he'd felt.

"It doesn't seem all that unreasonable," he admits, rubbing at his forehead and reaching out to brush his fingers across the back of the butcher's hand. "What could you possibly be worried about, though? I don't... I mean, it's just sex. It always was, with anyone except you." And even then, that had taken a while to take root. "I don't feel anything for them."

Dantalion

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

lord help anyone who stands in my way; for I am not merciful, and i am not kind
and i am not afraid to make you wish that i was

Giving him enough time to think about how he’d felt during that time, the butcher finds that it’s much easier not having to explain it to him — and gods, if that wasn’t such a similar statement to his involvement with dating Flora. There was no feeling aside from being friends, certainly nothing protective and overwhelming as his thoughts of Danta as they bloomed within him time and time again. Even if it doesn’t seem unreasonable to have these feelings, they certainly feel it.

And as Danta’s fingertips trace the back of his hand, he twists it beneath the Maverick’s hand, opening his own — an offering of sorts for Danta to take his hand. “What if that changes?” He asks slowly, as if his tongue doesn’t particularly want to move the way he needs it to in order to formulate his thoughts. “What if someone else swans in here able to promise you everything you could ever want?” A huff of a laugh leaves him, mirthless just as before, shaking his head and tilting it back as he closes his eyes with a soft sigh. “I would not even blame you.” It isn’t like he has much to offer anyway, aside from familiarity.

And that, in his experience, was not enough. Not if he didn’t provide in other ways.

Astaroth

say your prayers now

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

Hesitating just for a moment - and not because he doesn't want to, he just can't ever remember holding Asta's hand on purpose before - Danta slides his fingers against the butcher's, giving his hand a squeeze. "What, you mean like you did?" he wonders with the barest hint of a smirk on his face. Reaching out suddenly to swat Asta's boots off the desk, the Maverick all but swarms into his space, slinking into his lap and slipping his free arm around the other man's shoulders.

"I'd find it very hard to believe that someone could swan in here and promise me that. I already have everything I could ever want," he declares, his tail flicking with bold amusement. "Unless, you know, they've got three cocks and can squirt wine out of their tits. Then we might have a problem." He shrugs. "I'll let you know if anyone like that pops up though."

Dantalion

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

lord help anyone who stands in my way; for I am not merciful, and i am not kind
and i am not afraid to make you wish that i was

“Precisely like I did.” He says on the edge of a sigh, feeling the squeeze to his hand and relishing in the warmth against his hand that feels surprisingly cold now that he has a baseline of heat against it. He squeezes his hand back, before his boots are swatted off the desk and they fall heavily against the floor again, legs spreading slightly to offer more of a base for Danta to crowd into his space, even if he’s feeling stubbornly headstrong.

His chin tilts down and his eyes open to peer at him as he settles into his lap, jaw working slightly. “I think it is easy to say when you do not know the possibilities. You were happy with everything you could want before you woke me from stone.” He counters, blinking a touch drunkenly at the Maverick.

Blinks that turn into a very obvious roll of his eyes at the comment, but it bubbles a laugh out of his chest, perhaps the most genuine sound from him all night. “Ah so we’re doing hypotheticals now?” He sighs, flopping his head back to stare at the ceiling once more.

Astaroth

say your prayers now

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

"Mm, I was happy with everything I thought I could get," Danta corrects gently, slipping his hand out of Asta's so he can let both arms loop around the butcher's neck and shoulders. "Then I woke you from stone, and I was introduced to the idea of getting all the things I didn't know I could have." His fingers thread through the back of his dark hair, nails scratching gently against his scalp.

Surprised by the laugh, but pleasantly so, Danta shrugs his shoulders and smirks. "Why not? Hypotheticals are the only things that will tempt me away from this," he informs him, leaning forward and into Asta even as his head tips back. "Hey," he whispers, as if to get his attention. "It was just sex. I like sex - in a lot of different ways and with a lot of different people, if I can. But I love you."

Dantalion

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

lord help anyone who stands in my way; for I am not merciful, and i am not kind
and i am not afraid to make you wish that i was

It feels the same — because what’s around the corner that could be better than all of this? They don’t know and won’t know until it happens. And that is precisely what the butcher finds himself worried about. But the Maverick’s touch is a siren song against his scalp, and he’s far too drunk to be able to focus and indulge in his multitasking capabilities when those hands are in his hair.

“If you are certain.” Astaroth rumbles, as if still unsure, tilting his head back and listening as Danta tries to regain his attention again. And it doesn’t, initially, until those three little words spill from his lips. And that’s what brings his dark gaze back to focus on the blonde, hands snaking around Danta’s middle, clasping his hands there to rest against his hips.

It is equally as relieving as it is sweet, and the butcher leans forward enough in his seat to press his forehead against the Theocrat’s. “I love you too.” He whispers back, as if testing the words on his tongue again, because he can’t fully remember the last time he’d said them. “Just.. I want a heads up next time. I will make myself scarce.” He decides on a slow contemplative thought before he continues. “And I will reclaim any marks left on you.” It comes off as a vow — like he couldn’t fathom the idea of someone else’s marks remaining on the Maverick’s beautiful skin.

Astaroth

say your prayers now

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

He hasn't ever said them, not out loud, and Danta would remind him as much were it not for the fact that he's saying them now. Feeling the tension flee from his bones at the sound of Asta's voice - the Maverick isn't immune to how clumsy those words still feel on own his tongue, after all - he clasps him closer, forehead pressed to the other man's and an almost shy smile threatening on his lips. "I'll give you all the heads-up you want," he promises, relaxing fully into his lap and closing his eyes for a few moments.

"I'll always give you first refusal, too," he adds, his tone shifting towards something more wicked. "And I would expect nothing less. As a rule I don't like anyone else leaving any mementos on me anyway." Shifting enough for Asta to be able to see the lack of marks or bites or bruises on his skin (other than the fading ones already put there by the butcher), he raises his eyebrows. "Check for yourself."

Dantalion

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

lord help anyone who stands in my way; for I am not merciful, and i am not kind
and i am not afraid to make you wish that i was

It is a clumsy feeling — how the words themselves feel so mundane compared to the complexity of the feelings surrounding them. And with it, the butcher finds it leaving his own lips without all of the eloquence he wishes he could add — to wax poetics surrounding the term rather than say it itself. But he’s too drunk to formulate anything, too exhausted from all of his thoughts of taking that woman apart, to actively try it.

Humming a note to say he agrees with that sentiment, though, his own eyes close and they settle there in surprising peace, the places their bodies connect does wonders for relieving the brimming tension in the butcher’s shoulders. “Then we have a deal, hm?” He says before he’s pulling back slightly to open his eyes, the honey brown made black in Danta’s shadow from the flame at his back.

But he’s told to look, and even if the jealousy roars in his stomach at the thought, the butcher indulges in the act of checking for any signs. His hands lift, sweeping back still damp blonde curls, calloused fingertips skating across pale skin, over faded bruises he knows are his own, but finding nothing red or amiss in the Maverick’s appearance. It’s like nothing had happened, and if he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, he might have been able to believe it too.

Drunk and still quite possessive, the butcher leans forward back into Danta’s space, lips pressing against his pulse there before his kisses trail down toward where his shoulder meets his neck, and he nips ever so carefully to drag a bead of blood to the surface, to redden the space and leave a tiny mark, before he’s withdrawing and slipping his hand up to cup Danta’s cheek. “Just mine.”

Astaroth

say your prayers now

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

Hissing in a breath that suggests he has to think very hard all of a sudden, Danta can't stop the mischief from flickering into his expression. "I recall it being quite a terrible idea to make a deal with the likes of you," he purrs. "But you know... I like my odds, so you got it." Grinning down at the other man and reaching out to smooth a few stray locks of hair back and behind Asta's sharp horns, the Maverick resigns himself to be a docile and willing subject for the butcher's scrutiny.

Sitting up a little so his hands (and mouth) can roam across his skin as they please, Danta tilts his head into the examination of his neck, his wine dark shirt slipping from his shoulder as Asta leans in further to kiss and nip his final thoughts against his flesh. Inhaling a quick breath at the tang of blood in the air, he lifts his fingers to rest his hand against Asta's on his cheek, relishing the warm touch. "Only ever yours," he echoes, and he isn't talking about the marks on his skin.

Leaning in to press his lips against the butcher's, Danta kisses him as if to keep the taste of him in his mouth, wanting every touch to overwrite those that had come before, even if nothing comes of it. (With how drunk Asta is, the Maverick already has his doubts).

Dantalion

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

lord help anyone who stands in my way; for I am not merciful, and i am not kind
and i am not afraid to make you wish that i was

It was a terrible idea once upon a time, usually for those that had something to fear. But with Danta, his odds were quite good — given how many deals the butcher has made with the Maverick that the blonde has survived through. So it’s with a soft snort as he makes his inspection, selfishly relishing the feel of Danta smoothing out his loose hair, the butcher finally starts to relax as he trails his lips across his skin. “You have survived thus far.” He drawls before he’s nipping his neck, drawing a small amount of blood and heat to bloom to the surface.

His other hand smooths along his back, tugging at the dark red shirt to keep it fallen off his shoulder while the other cups his cheek upon his withdrawal, flashing a small yet sharp smile toward the Maverick. There’s underlying meanings to the words Danta confirms, but the butcher is too drunk to pick them out. So at least he’s satisfied with that answer, even more so when the Theocrat leans in to steal a kiss from his lips.

And he indulges wholeheartedly, as if the iron on his tongue could melt away any lingering thoughts or taste of anyone else before him. To punctuate the point, the butcher slices his tongue on one of those sharp incisors of his, pooling the blood onto his tongue to press into the kiss for the Maverick, ensuring that there’s nothing but the scent of iron, smoke, and whiskey to drown out everything else.

His hand around Danta’s middle tightens, tail sweeping up to curl contently between his shoulders, relishing in each and every second of this prolonged kiss, wanting to go until his lungs ache.

Astaroth

say your prayers now

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

Humming his obvious approval at the iron that invades their kiss, Danta has no idea how he's supposed to keep his senses or to pull himself back before he passes out. His arm drapes back around Asta's shoulders, clasping him closer, and when he finally does part from the other man's lips, it's only for an inch or two as he tries to pant for breath. "I love you." He whispers the words again, as if they both might have missed them the first time around, and as he leans in to close the distance between them once more, he realises how ridiculously true they are.

He loves the butcher, loves everything about him; the violence bound tightly in manners and charm, the dry wit, the beauty in the chaos he weaves between his fingers. He loves his sass, his sweet tooth and the way he doesn't understand certain jokes or customs, the slow burn of his temper, the unfathomable patience he has for Danta's antics. From the press of his hands to the prick of his teeth and the horrors that lurk in his mind at night, he fucking loves it all.

"You are quite drunk," he whispers when he draws away for a second time, amusement written in his tone. "Can I interest you in a walk outside, or a glass of water, or perhaps even going to bed?"

Dantalion

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

lord help anyone who stands in my way; for I am not merciful, and i am not kind
and i am not afraid to make you wish that i was

It is surprising, in his drunken state, to find that when they part and his head feels lightheaded, Danta’s words are as soothing as they had been frightening merely a season ago. And he finds that he craves it; the feeling of it, the fact that he was wanted for so much more than just what destruction his hands are capable of. He loves him too, despite being unable to say as much with the subsequent press of Danta’s lips to his. He simply settles to say it in the smooth swipes of his hands, the way his tail curves in harder in response, the way that he wants to drown himself in everything Danta’s provided him with.

They part again and the butcher’s head spins, panting for breath with the slow drip of blood still from his tongue that’s managed to find the corner of his mouth, reddening it against his bronzed skin and dark beard. “I am very drunk.” He whispers back as if it’s a correction, despite it being the same fact. And after there are options laid out, of whether he should walk, drink some water, go to sleep. He doesn’t know which he’d prefer in the moment, not with how he soaks up the heat of the fire and Danta in his lap, but he figures he needs to offer a response anyway.

“A walk. I want to go outside and get some fresh air.” He wants to feel the cool Longheat night air on his face, he wants to drift too close to the bonfire to singe the edge of his waistcoat in flecks of melted fabric, snapping threads. He wants the calm mixed with the chaos.

The only trouble would be getting there.

Astaroth

say your prayers now

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

"Ah - forgive me," Danta purrs, smiling down at the butcher and reaching out to gently swipe the blood away from the corner of his mouth, only to lick it from the pad of his thumb a moment later. "A walk is probably a good idea, then. I'll take some water, though - just in case." In case Asta sets himself on fire whilst they're out in the Inner Quarter, or in case he gets thirsty? It could be either, in truth.

As for getting there? Danta has that covered too, thankfully, and he leans in to kiss Asta's forehead before starting to extract himself from the other man's lap. It's done with obvious reluctance, as is the way he shrugs his shirt back on properly and buttons it, but soon enough he's offering the taller man his hand to help him stand. "We'll sneak out the back doors," he says with a wink. "You can lean on me all you like."

Dantalion

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