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 is indeed okay, because for whatever experiences Danta never got to receive when it came to dancing or simply being held in a sway to soft and slow music, Astaroth intends to change that. It’s already established he can sing, and humming is really not that different. He hums the tune, finding a pace that’s easy for Danta to match with, even if he’s unsure.

And isn’t that just a reflection of the past season — the want to be something more, the uncertainty of how it might be once in action. For Astaroth to take the lead (knowingly or not) when it came to his dates with Flora to show Danta’s hand.

And he sees that thoughtful expression, content to hold him close all the same and sway him to the music, the firelight low as it and the moonlight reflects on their faces, the way it glints a multitude of hues from Danta’s horns. He tilts his head slightly to rest against the horns as he presses in to rest against his head against his shoulder. “You deserve it, darling.” And he does. He deserves the world. And Astaroth intends to show it to him, however much he might rebel from it from time to time.

He returns to the humming, the vibration felt from his shoulder as well as heard by his ear as he continues, swaying them into a slow circle, until the song is complete and he drifts into a stillness — having spun them enough that the moonlight silhouettes Danta’s face and body. His hand loosens from the blonde’s to rise to his cheek, lifting his head to claim a very much wanted kiss, soft and slow and sweet, like he’s savoring this memory.

Astaroth

say your prayers now

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

Instinctively wanting to balk against the idea that he deserves anything, Danta perhaps wisely bites his tongue this time, though Asta will undoubtledly feel the way his eyebrows knit together in response to his natural uncertainty. Instead, savouring the thrum of music from the butcher's throat and the way it wisps through the air in a surprisingly gentle melody, the Maverick is left in very new territory indeed, feeling surprisingly fragile in the face of it.

They sway in a circle throughout the room, filtering between silver moonlight and the ruddy warmth of the fire, Danta's tail curling low near his heels and a small smile finding its way onto his lips. He almost doesn't want to stop the stillness vibrating through him more than the movement ever did, and as Asta reaches out to tilt his face up, the Maverick is already waiting for him.

Savouring the sweetness and peppermint on Asta's lips as much as the gentle way his arm has threaded around his waist, Danta's newly freed hand winds around the other man in turn, the other remaining clasped around his shoulders. It feels like an eternity before they part enough to breathe and speak, by which time stars have begun to dance at the corners of his vision and his throat has grown curiously tight.

I love you, he might have said for the third time tonight, but instead settles on a roughly spoken, "What was that song?"

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’s new territory for him as well — enough that he can’t quite place or understand the thrumming of butterflies in his stomach (a sensation that’s happened more and more with the time spent with Danta). Enough that he pours those feelings of comfort and warmth and happiness, at such odds with how the night had begun, into the kiss that Danta meets him with.

His hand threads further into his hair, fingertips brushing back the blonde as he tastes the sweetness of Danta’s kiss, the way the whiskey pairs with the bright scent the Maverick always had, wrapping around lemon and lime in his mind. When they part, his chest heaves, sucking in a long breath as his forehead presses against Danta’s briefly before withdrawing to hear the question.

“They called it Rae’s Sonata.” He hums softly, lips twitching into a soft smile. “It’s about how the protagonist can either change and adapt to her new surroundings and a new life when the other was not inhabitable or safe any longer, or perish.” He pauses, consideringly. “It was a melody that stuck with me when I spent time in that town, so long ago.” For obvious reasons that don’t need explanation, he thinks.

Astaroth

say your prayers now

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

Both surprised and not to hear that the melody hadn't been anything to do with Dygra (her songs are beautiful but tilt towards the sensual rather than the sweet), Danta listens with his head cocked to the side, leaning into the fingers in his hair. Surprisingly thirsty for the knowledge that Asta imparts, the Maverick's fingers spread in a slow starburst against his lower back, and he leans forward to kiss him once more even as their foreheads touch.

"I can't imagine why," he teases gently, grinning as he draws back just enough to be able to gaze up and into the butcher's honey dark eyes. "If I didn't think you drinking more would be a bad idea, I'd say we ought to toast to change," he says, chuckling under his breath before stepping back in suddenly, holding the other man in a surprisingly close embrace. "Not for the first time, I feel like I need to send something to Flora to say thank you to her," he admits.

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

The next kiss is just as sweet and Astaroth cherishes it, fingertips twitching where they thread through the blonde. But as they withdraw and his gaze meets the Maverick’s, they’re soft and gentle, warm honey meeting the fire dark hues of Danta’s own blues. “Next time, mm?” He asks, before a huff of breath is leaving him with how Danta presses in close again.

A glimmer of surprise flickers in his gaze at the comment, and he can’t help the soft laugh that leaves him with it. “Perhaps we should not rub salt in the wound?” He admits a touch softly, before shrugging a shoulder lightly. “Her and I are friendly toward one another again, at least.” A small boon he’s not looking to lose again, not with how strong and powerful she is.

But either way, whether Danta wishes to do it or not, his only focus is the here and now — warm and in the Maverick’s embrace, as comfortable as he could ever be.

Astaroth

say your prayers now

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

"Next time," Danta confirms, smirking into Asta's shoulder and letting himself stand and enjoy the stillness and the silence between them, unmarred by things left unsaid or feelings shoved down so deep they're standing on them. The laughter, at least, has him raising an eyebrow, though as the other man explains he supposes he can appreciate his trepidation. "A good point. Maybe I'll just surprise her with things and not explain what they're for," he suggests; it's chaotic enough that he might just get away with it.

"I'm glad, though, that we didn't lose her as a friend." Something he'd have balked at even a few seasons ago, but just as being forced to admit his feelings for the butcher has cracked Danta open to the idea of affection, it's brought along with it the idea of not having to be alone in general. "C'mon. We're both wearing far too many clothes for this time of night." Ushering the other man back towards the bed, the Maverick's hands glide softly over the dark grey suit jacket, intending to unbutton it and push it back over Asta's shoulders.

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

As Danta mentions the idea of randomly gifting her things without any explanation, the butcher nods a touch more eagerly. It made more sense to do it that way, at least then she could come up with any multitude of reasonings for it to be given rather than what the obvious one was. “Much better, darling. And I am glad, too.” It meant that Torchline could still be visited, that they could still be a part of her guild, that they’d have one hell of a strong friend at their backs should they ever need one.

But then, he’s suddenly ushered backwards and his mind takes a few seconds to catch up to hear what Danta says — subconsciously bringing the fire back up to a merry warmth as the surprise crosses his face, briefly, the butcher’s calves hit the bed and he sinks down so as to not completely fall backwards and take the Maverick with him. “That is probably true.” He admits with a soft huff as he settles onto the bed, peering up at Danta with mischief and happiness dancing in the honey dark of his eyes.

His hands loosen around Danta, making it easier for the blonde to unbutton the suit jacket and slip it over his shoulders. He shrugs out of it, reaching up shortly after to slip off the loose wine dark shirt that the other Ancient wears, hands craving the warmth of his scarred pale skin.

Astaroth

say your prayers now

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

"It is definitely true," Danta corrects, and as the fire flares up he takes over to bring it down low again, allowing him to strip the butcher of his jacket in the merry flicker of twilight. Discarding the garment and shifting enough to assist Asta in the removal of his own shirt, the Maverick is soon stepping forward to stand between the other man's legs, fingers moving to buttons and burnt orange fabric. "This is a good colour on you," he remarks in a low voice - not that he enjoys it more than Asta's bare skin, of course.

Opening the shirt easily enough, Danta's attention turns briefly to the buttons of his jeans, before returning to unbuckle Asta's belt. For once there's nothing hasty or near desperate in the removal of their clothes - the Maverick wants nothing more than to feel Asta's hands on his bare skin and to relish in the warmth between them without any barriers. And as he steps out of his shoes and peels off his jeans, rather than swarming over the other man, he draws him forward instead, arms slipping around his shoulders in a gentle embrace.

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

“Mm, the orange?” Astaroth hums, clearly distracted by the hands working at his shirt to unbutton it along with the feel of Danta’s warm body beneath his own hands, ghosting along his thin torso in gentle swaths like he’s committing it to memory for the thousandth time. It’s reverent, even as he shifts slightly when his shirt is opened and completely unbuttoned, abandoning the task of keeping his hands on the Maverick momentarily to unroll the sleeves of his shirt (one singed and a challenge, but still he tries) while Danta works at his pants.

It’s smooth going once he can shrug out of his shirt, too. And by the time Danta’s pulling him in and looping his arms around his shoulders, the butcher winds his own around his lower back, peering up at him through a far less drunk, more open gaze. “You are beautiful, Danta.” He hums softly, not for the first time he’s said something along these lines, but each time he does it seems just as genuine, just as awed. This time, though, there’s a touch of his hopeless romantics breaking through, overwhelmingly in love despite not being able to parse those feelings all too well.

He noses up to press his lips to Danta’s jaw gently, paving a slow path to his mouth, as if to punctuate just how much he reveres him.

Astaroth

say your prayers now

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

"Mm. We'll have to get you a replacement, since you put this one a little too close to the bonfire," Danta agrees of the orange shirt. He of course is focused too much on his own task to assist with the singed sleeve, but he's pleased nonetheless to find Asta has succeeded by the time he's drawing him forward. Long fingers write sweet nothings against the butcher's back and shoulders, purposely following no particular pattern as if to stroke along warm flesh and ragged scar tissue in equal measure.

Smirking to see Asta's dark gaze upon him, one hand slips around so he might brush his thumb across one of his cheeks, admiring the honey black colour of his eyes against the firelight. Of course, the other man's words have heat suddenly rushing up to his cheeks and the tips of his ears, Danta roughly clearing his throat and looking away with a self-deprecating smile. "You're not so bad yourself," he mumbles, saved mercifully by the sudden soft press of Asta's lips.

Turning back to meet his kiss without hesitation, Danta is just as slow and sweet in his reciprocation, and by the time he does sink into Asta's lap, he's practically putty in the butcher's hands, tongue writing promises his body will keep whenever the other man feels like cashing them in.

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

If orange was a color that Danta preferred, well, the butcher may or may not already be thinking subconsciously of the variety of oranges he could get. This one, while lovely, had succumbed to his drunken impulses, though may be able to be mended with a different pattern. Not that he’s thinking too much about it as he slips out of it.

No, because Danta’s fingertips run along both smooth and raggedly scarred skin, and he’s relishing in the heat from both of their bodies as he’s pulled close, as he peers up at him and the way the firelight flickers against half of his face while the other’s bathed in darkness. The hand at his cheek is just as warm and inviting, even as his compliment slips his lips and he can almost feel the heat that blossoms across the Maverick’s face.

As their lips meet in a true kiss, it’s half of what’s on Danta’s mind while the other focuses on all the ways he does find him beautiful. He is a phoenix to the butcher. And Astaroth finds him equally stunning whether he’s wearing his carefree attire throughout the day or if he’s soundly asleep in the bed, hair a mess and curling about his ears in the heat of Longheat, looking for all the world at peace and comfortable.

He pulls him in a bit tighter once he’s sank into his lap, hands spidering out against his lower back and rising to his shoulders along his spine. And perhaps to Danta’s surprise, he returns the kiss with his own little wicked promises. Maybe it’s to soothe that final nail in the coffin, maybe it’s because he hasn’t indulged since Torchline. Either way, his hands spread out more protectively and a touch greedy as he breaks from the kiss when his lungs burn, tail curling around Danta’s own tail, as if intending to lock them together. “I want you.” He says quietly on a breath, brushing his nose against Danta’s as if waiting to see just how the blonde might react.

Astaroth

say your prayers now

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

Letting his thumb graze across Asta's cheek, down along his jawline and to the hollow of his throat, at any other point one might have expected Danta's affections to turn ravenous and demanding in his passion. Tonight, though, it feels entirely unnecessary, especially as he feels the butcher's hands press against his pale skin, as soft and possessive as his kisses have been. He draws back just enough to pepper further kisses at the corner of Asta's mouth, pressed flush against the other man's body such that as he speaks, he'll be able to feel the heat that kindles low in Danta's belly as well as see it in his expression.

"We don't have to," he breathes, making it sound an awful lot like I want you too, a lazy smile spreading across his lips as he brushes his nose against the butcher's. "I don't want you to feel obligated because of what happened tonight. I'll want you just as much at any other time, I promise."

Regardless, Danta is already shifting to lay back in bed, drawing Asta along with him with gentle hands and a playful nibble to his lower lip. However they decide to spend the rest of the evening, all Danta cares about is that he's pinned beneath the butcher; anything else is a bonus, as far as he's concerned.

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

Against his throat, where Danta’s hand settles, there’s an easy heartbeat that thrums against his skin, calm and collected even as he draws back to offer the little whisper. His hands are still just as warm as they smooth against his skin, over scars he’d given and those he hadn’t, tilting his head lightly into the kisses that the Maverick places on the corner of his mouth. And yes, he does feel the swell of heat, something he clings to as he hears the answer, dark gaze taking in the easy smile that blooms.

His lips part to speak, but Danta continues, and he promptly closes his mouth until the blonde is shifting and tugging him back with surprisingly gentle hands, twisting to press into the kiss ever so lightly when he receives the nibble to his lower lip. He ends up boxing the Maverick in, body pinning him just as Danta’s subconscious wanted, pulling away from the soft and gentle kisses to trail his own along Danta’s jaw, the scruff of his beard tickling at his neck. “I know I don’t have to.” He answers after a moment, his hot breath accented in a mixture of himself along with the undertones of the heavier Whitebrim accent.

“I want to, though.” He adds on, in case it isn’t obvious, lips grazing along his cheek to his ear, soft and gentle. “I want to indulge in you and worship you and love you.” Boxing him in a little bit tighter, his fingertips stroke through the other Ancient’s blonde hair, pulling it back and away from his face while his legs press in between Danta’s own. “Will you allow me the honor?” There’s the twitch of his signature smile the Theocrat could feel from where his lips stay pressed against his ear.

Astaroth

say your prayers now

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

Comfortable in a way that's impossible to describe as he sinks into the bed and Asta blankets his body, Danta's arms stretch around the other man, head tilting to the side to welcome the decadence of his kisses. It is obvious, now that he's got a second to consider it, one hand strumming a gentle rhythm up the length of the other man's back, his legs spreading to welcome him between them.

Biting back the smile that wants to spread across his lips, not to mention the protests and self deprecating remarks - to indulge in you and worship you and love you - it takes a shivery couple of moments for Danta to remember to breathe, by which point Asta is whispering against his ear and silencing any reply worth giving other than yes. "Well when you put it like that..." He huffs out a breathless laugh, fresh heat in his cheeks, his head turning into the fingers that smooth through his hair.

He hesitates only for a fraction of a second before making the decision to draw up his glamour, his horns vanishing into the soft waves of his hair, making it easier to turn his head and seek out Asta's lips. No longer having the benefit of fangs, it matters little in the end; pressing his tongue to one of the sharp points of the butcher's canines, their kiss floods with the taste of hot iron, and his arms tighten further around the other man.

Dantalion

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