I'm where the spiders go

so give me your prayers up on your feet
and i'll give you a show, it helps fill the seats

They get back on track after his momentary loss of balance, the butcher’s arm growing tighter around his lover as they walk toward the infirmary, like the wound is actually far more draining than he’s let on. It is, in a way, deep and making Asta be more attuned to just how deep he breathes, just how much he could get away with in order for it to not hurt. But Danta’s hand against him around the blade is a boon, one that has him relaxing a touch in that regard because at least his lover’s hand could make up the difference.

“You will.” He says in an accented but resigned sigh, jaw working for a moment before he takes another slow and measured inhale, his head and attention focused on the Temple growing closer with each practiced step. “I am sorry in advance.” Even if the point feels moot right now, given the blade sticking out of him.

His weight grows heavier on Danta’s shoulder, a small and short nod offered before he speaks, a few moments after his lover’s whisper has broken the air. “We will work through this.” He promises, his hand squeezing Danta’s shoulder as they get to the few stairs that lead up to the Temple, taking them slowly and carefully, before they can breach the doors of the Infirmary. There’s more blood that has wicked out, but aside from the butcher looking a bit pale, he looks fairly okay all things considered.

At the mercy of the healers to fix him, as he knows they will given how they had each and every time before it.

Astaroth

so give me your sins, give me your lies
but whisper your love, and i'll whisper mine

// sun comin' up on a dream come around //

"I think you've earned the right to withhold your apology, given what I just did to you," Danta mutters. He doesn't try for a smile he knows won't come, but he does glance up at the butcher as they come upon the Temple, as if able to pick up on every subtle tell in his posture, the way he breathes, the pallor of his skin, that things aren't as easy and jovial as he makes out. He turns his attention to the blood soaking through Asta's waistcoat as they climb the steps, taking as much of his weight as he can before, at last, they're stepping in through the wide doors and heading for the Infirmary.

It's telling, that a few of the healers smile with recognition at the sight of them, and Danta reluctantly allows them to usher Asta away while they work on the wound. It leaves the Maverick loitering in the waiting area, and he plops down on a seat to put his head in his bloody hands, breathing slow and deep and trying to focus on the darkness behind his eyes rather than the events of the past however long.

And it works, more or less, because by the time he's being called to come through and see the butcher, it feels as though barely a blink has gone by. Having managed to remove the blade, and using a combination of healing magic and other medicine, Asta should only have to deal with a dressing over the now considerably smaller cut for a few days, and perhaps a bit of shortness of breath as he heals.

Providing he can get a tailor to repair his waistcoat, he might even be able to salvage that too - which is a rarity that Danta, for one, doesn't take for granted.

Dantalion

// one hundred years from the empire now //

so give me your prayers up on your feet
and i'll give you a show, it helps fill the seats

Ah, if only it were that simple. The butcher doesn’t complain, though, doesn’t offer a retort, because each breath grows more and more measured as the pain starts to hit stronger, as the adrenaline wears down with the prospect of being healed. So he’s silent as they drift through, offering those smiles in return to the healers that smile toward them. And he feels the reluctance in Danta’s touch as he’s pulled away, a murmur that he’ll be back soon leaving his lips before Danta is left in the waiting room.

The removal of the blade comes with it a fresh gush of blood, a quiet grunt as he ensures he remains quiet, fighting every urge within him to be louder from the pain before the sweet relief of the healers spark through. The waistcoat is saved, but the shirt is not, but Asta had expected as much when he’d initially agreed to hunt like this. Even still, he looks quite the mess with the splatter of blood on his face, clinging and sticking in clumps in his hair, speckling the delicate gold chains that adorn his antlers.

But eventually, relief floods through him as the dressing is wrapped, strict instructions to not wear his usual tight-fitting waistcoats to allow the wound to breathe and heal beneath the medical dressing and further instruction on just how to clean the wound in between. And with a lot of quiet gratitude for their resident healers, the butcher reemerges from the back rooms.

He steps up to Danta, breaths still measured and careful, with the perhaps fixable waistcoat over his arm, shirtless aside from the dressing that hides the damage, and a little rattle of a bottle of pain medication in the pocket of his dark slacks, stained darker with blood. “Ready to head home, darling?” He asks, voice lighter than it had been, returning to his usual flare as he immediately reaches for his lover to wind his arm around his middle.

Bracing himself for what was to come. Because it wasn't going to be fun in the slightest, but it has to happen.

Astaroth

so give me your sins, give me your lies
but whisper your love, and i'll whisper mine

// sun comin' up on a dream come around //

"More than ready, yes," Danta mutters immediately, folding into the arm that slips around his middle but being careful not to lean against Asta in any way that will put pressure on the stark white dressing that stands out against his tanned skin. Instead, reaching up to gently brush the back of his knuckles across the other man's cheek, he touches his forehead to Asta's for a second or two, inhaling the scent of him around the sterile bandages and medicines of the infirmary.

"Will you be alright to walk?" he asks automatically as he draws back, blue eyes dancing across the butcher's form as if to parse any further injuries from the blood that stains them both. Finding none other than the wound he'd inflicted himself, Danta forces his shoulders to slouch and steps back enough to lead them from the Temple, calling his gratitude over his shoulder.

Glued to Asta's side much as he had been on the way there, whether or not it's necessary any longer, Danta glances sidelong at him as they walk. "How are you feeling?"

Dantalion

// one hundred years from the empire now //

so give me your prayers up on your feet
and i'll give you a show, it helps fill the seats

Pausing from immediately moving as the blonde’s hand comes up, knuckles brushing against the butcher’s cheek, Asta easily presses back into the touch at his forehead. His breaths still measured but looser than they had been on the way here, it doesn’t stop him from brushing his nose against his lover’s in a gentle nuzzling motion before they both withdraw.”Yes. I will just need to go a little slower, is all.” He reassures Danta, offering his lover a shark tooth smile.

With the thank yous and gratitude tossed over their shoulders as they depart, Asta’s silently grateful for the clinginess within the Theocrat. Still using him to lean against, he also doesn't want to part, equally just as clingy and perhaps a touch more so now with the desire to tell Danta that he is fine.

That would be a lie, though, and they promised never to do that again. “Sore.” He hums softly, letting his gaze skate over to Danta rather than the path that takes them toward home. “I have strict instructions to clean the wound and replace the dressings until it’s fully closed, take the prescribed pain medication twice a day, and to not wear waistcoats until it is healed.” The latter is said with a soft chuckle, lips quirking into a small smile. “All of those things aside, I am perfectly fine, despite still having to be a bit cautious with my breaths.” His tail flicks back and forth easily as they walk, but the dark spaded portion of it slips around to brush against Danta’s hip in a soft touch, another point of connection.

Astaroth

so give me your sins, give me your lies
but whisper your love, and i'll whisper mine

// sun comin' up on a dream come around //

"I think I can manage that, just about," Danta says, of going slower as they exit the Temple, the Maverick slipping an arm around his lover and keeping his pace leisurely. It's still warm out, even now that night has fallen, though he keeps a few wisps of fire dancing around them, kissing at their bare skin, just in case. And they're by far the only ones out - not even the only Ancients, in fact - so their being splattered with blood is pretty much par for the course.

It's only as they arrive to the steps down into the Last Whisper that Danta pauses, smiling apologetically as Asta explains. "Are they good pain meds, at least?" he asks, able to hear the rattle of the pills from the other man's pocket. "If not, I think I still have some of the good stuff from when we were accosted by that lightning storm."

Stepping away from Asta just because he imagines it will be easier for the butcher to tackle the steps without his weight against him, Danta sighs his understanding. "Let me know if there's anything I can do, yeah?"

Dantalion

// one hundred years from the empire now //

so give me your prayers up on your feet
and i'll give you a show, it helps fill the seats

“Lovely.” He hums, content to take that leisurely pace as he gets accustomed to how his muscles move now that he isn’t forced to hunch his shoulders to prevent the blade from falling out with the potential of him bleeding out. It’s sore and slow going, but at least the weather is nice and they aren’t the only ones out covered in dried blood.

The Last Whisper couldn’t come soon enough, though, and he chuckles a soft breathy sound as he glances over to Danta. “Perhaps we shall try one of these versus the other and see which are better? I do not believe I have tried these ones yet.” A little bit of experimenting - because gods if the pain medication he’d gotten from the lightning had been verrrrry good.

Then, his dreaded nemesis is upon them and the butcher smiles gratefully toward Danta as his tail whips with a bit of frustration at the sight of the stairs, huffing a little sound as he braces himself and snags the rail. “I will, darling.” But he’s stubborn. So he takes each step one at a time, slow going until he’s finally off the stairs. And with a small playful smirk (and a glare back to the stairs), the butcher holds out his arm, waiting for Danta to tuck in again. “That was not so bad, mm?”

Astaroth

so give me your sins, give me your lies
but whisper your love, and i'll whisper mine

// sun comin' up on a dream come around //

"That sounds like a fine idea. I'll even make a tally for you to compare them. That way, the next time either one of us inevitably does something stupid, we'll know exactly what to ask for to take away the pain of our bad decisions." Smiling sunnily, Danta keeps his pace beside Asta, however slow he has to take the steps down into The Last Whisper. He doesn't reach for him or hover about him, merely walking as if they're talking a particularly leisurely stroll home.

Only when he's safely reached the bottom step, of course, does the Maverick sidle back in against his side, leaning up to kiss his cheek as if to offer him congratulations. "It could have been a lot worse, put it that way," he agrees, setting off down the last stretch towards the Dusklight.

The brothel is animated and bustling, but not so much that they're at risk of being bumped about as they step inside - especially not considering Asta's newfound ability. And Danta's jaw clenches as he realises they're almost upon the inevitable, the Maverick smiling weakly towards the other man. "Let's go to your office? I'd rather not take this where we sleep, not just yet."

Dantalion

// one hundred years from the empire now //

so give me your prayers up on your feet
and i'll give you a show, it helps fill the seats

“Gods, you know how much I love tallies.” The butcher hums as he focuses on the steps, his voice wholly dripping with the dramatics despite the truth to them. He does like tallying things. He also likes being organized and knowing precisely what to use when it came to cleaning up messes or mistakes. Mental, physical, or otherwise. It’s why his discovery of bleach had been a brilliant thing when he’d woken from stone.

But that’s neither here nor there, because he’s finally gotten to the bottom of the stairs and Danta’s tucking in at his side and things feel right again for at least the steps that would take them to into the Dusklight. And that’s when the realization sinks into the both of them, muting Danta substantially as they step through and people mostly avoid them - more whispers filtering through about the very ability he’s supposed to unleash to the Maverick in such a short amount of time.

He offers a smile to everyone around, at least, masked as it is that no one would be able to tell the difference aside from the man tucked into his side - the one wearing a weak smile that’s directed up to him. “Of course, darling.” He murmurs, giving him a gentle squeeze, cutting the usual path through the Dusklight to the Backrooms, slinking into his office where he can set the waistcoat down and the bottle of pills, letting his gaze scan Danta for a few long moments when they part.

Drifting closer and ensuring none of his haunt will slip out, the butcher reaches up to gently cup Danta’s face, tilting him enough to meet the butcher’s lips in a gentle kiss. “I promise that I will not hurt you.” Comes the low rumble of a vow, following by the soft addition of “remember that I love you.” And only once those words sink in does he take as deep of a breath as he can. "Tell me when you are ready, love, and whether you want the worst of it to start or if you would like for me to start small and work up."

Astaroth

so give me your sins, give me your lies
but whisper your love, and i'll whisper mine

// sun comin' up on a dream come around //

You're such a fucking nerd, is what Danta might have said if he weren't suddenly concentrating hard on the path ahead and the way they step through the Dusklight crowds, heading straight behind the bar to the Backrooms. The Maverick pauses only briefly to collect a glass and a bottle of some very good, very strong brandy, before he slips through the doors and follows Asta down the short corridor to his office.

Stepping inside, as the other man sets down the pills and waistcoat, Danta is already pouring himself a hefty measure of brandy, taking a long and burning sip of it to let the liquor spread its fiery tendrils through his throat and chest. He's just finished the glass and set it and the bottle down when Asta approaches, the Maverick doing his best not to flinch and only relaxing when he realises the butcher is still wholly himself for now.

Leaning into the offered kiss and brushing his fingers across the back of his hand, he nearly opts out of it completely. Nearly says fuck it, not tonight, and suggests hiding themselves away upstairs to pretend this hasn't happened.

But it has happened, and hiding won't get rid of it.

"I love you," he offers in return, stepping back and shaking out suddenly freezing cold hands to force a shaky inhale. "Hit me with the worst you have," he decides. "Whenever you're ready." That way his mind can wrap itself around the idea of it never being more than what Asta shows him. That's if it doesn't splinter under the pressure first.

Dantalion

// one hundred years from the empire now //

// I'm putting you out of your misery //

The brandy is a nice touch and one that Asta doesn’t delve into with him. He wants to be as level headed as he can be, so when he steps up and presses the gentle kiss, doing what he can to ensure that this was on Danta’s terms, the butcher releases him immediately when he steps back. “Alright.” He murmurs softly.

Asta also steps back until his hip hits his desk, taking a deep breath and scans Danta briefly. Without speaking again, the butcher’s form starts to ripple, shadows curling in the dark room, lit only by the oil lamps that the fire dances around them. The shadows warp and curl, encasing the butcher in veils and shawls as his horns grow longer, more forks and tines blooming in the crooked dark obsidian of his head. He grows taller, too, form shifting into the worst of the worst of himself - wreathed in illusion flame that burns the room alight with gold, red, and yellows.

His eyes are pure molten fire, his body taking on a haggard, willowy appearance, skeletal and large in the office space. Fire wraps around the curled knots of his antlers, his face turning into a cross between a deer and a dragon, with multitudes of razor sharp teeth littering the large maw that suddenly glows a hot white from the fire within his core. He looks like each and every portion within him is ablaze, held in only by the dark black of a too long rib cage and warped, melted, scarred skin.

But he doesn’t do anything else. He doesn’t lash out. If anything, the monster that stands before his lover is one that’s tame, that lowers his head, clawed daggers for hands flattening against the floor of the office as he takes on as much of an unimposing stance as possible, pale fiery eyes focused wholly on Danta.

Astaroth

// 'cause darling you're dragging me down //

// sun comin' up on a dream come around //

It might not be Danta's first time experiencing Asta's haunt, but gods if time and distance haven't made him forget the intensity of it. His feet take him back a few steps even at the first ripple of shadow, lips pulling back from his teeth in a silent snarl. Fire burns low at his feet - fire that will leave scorch marks on the boards that he'll apologise for later - but as the full, monstrous scale of the other man fills the room, there's absolutely nowhere for him to go.

And Danta crushes down the instinct to fight, because that's what had gotten them here in the first place. But without the feral rage to fall back on, the adrenaline turns ice cold in the pit of his stomach, and he's trembling hard as his back hits the wall. It might not be real, but everything the butcher is capable of and then some is contained in the flayed and burning creature before him, and his body has kept the receipts of all the pain inflicted over the years.

Asta doesn't move and neither does Danta, his eyes remaining on the creature, wide and unblinking, as if worried where it will go if he glances away. His face is angled as if he desperately wants to look anywhere else at all, though, and without even realising it, he's slunk into one corner of the office, his breath leaving him too quickly and unevenly. Just do it, his posture seems to demand, as if he's retreated somewhere old and far away. Whatever it is, do it and leave.

Dantalion

// one hundred years from the empire now //

// I'm putting you out of your misery //

Embers spark from his chest and shoulders, muscles twitching in the confines of flame as orange white eyes watch Danta’s reaction. His stomach sinks, and if there was a possibility of a frown on Asta’s face that would be visible, it certainly would be there. As it stands, though, it’s a standoff, they’re both so still with Asta not wanting to make anything worse than he already has.

Though, honestly, with Danta crouched down against the wall and as small as he can be - he sees the look. He remembers the way Danta would break like this when he’d use this. And he aches with all of the previous harm he’d laid on his lover’s skin. The very scars that remain to this day. “I will not hurt you.” He says, maw parting awkwardly while the voice is disembodied, a low echo of dissonance that peels against one another with all the bells of discomfort slipping through the tones.

And he remains still and watchful, sinking down so that he’s no longer backed up against the desk to lay flat on the floor, long maw tilted away from Danta in a very stark opposite of what he used to do. The butcher was prone to keeping Danta completely in his sight when he’d step into the bowels of the Climb when he’d use this. And perhaps that might be an indicator enough, paired with how Asta remains to try and be as not intimidating as possible. “I am sorry.” Comes the quiet and still dissonant apology.

Astaroth

// 'cause darling you're dragging me down //

// sun comin' up on a dream come around //

Danta can't help it, flinching hard at the grating voice that ripples through the air between them, biting his tongue in the process and flooding his mouth with copper that suddenly tastes bitter and sickening. There isn't anywhere else to retreat as Asta begins to move, but gods if the Maverick doesn't try, scrabbling back against the wall and clawing at it with enough force to leave a few nails broken and bleeding by the end of all this.

Anything Asta has said to him prior to unveiling the full extent of his haunt may as well have been said to another man, because Danta remembers none of the reassurance and believes none of what the nightmarish voice promises, forced to hold his breath for a few seconds as his mind clouds over, dizzy with hyperventilation. Only at the apology does some tiny fraction of the present slither through, and it's through a hoarse voice and gritted teeth that he finally manages to speak.

"Enough," he whispers. "I've had enough."

Dantalion

// one hundred years from the empire now //