[SE] love you 'til I rust

// you knew who I was //

Scoffing at the murderous intent behind the voice dripping honey in his ear, Danta nevertheless swats at the butcher's backside with the spaded tip of his tail (since, you know, his hands are full). "I'd prefer it if you stepped closer to one of those brooms and helped me do this," he quips, though it's without any real heat to it; heat is a commodity he's having to start to ration by now anyway.

On the plus side, it takes only a fraction of the time to help clear the residual mud from the roadway, and at long last, the cart is free and one of the main pathways into the Inner Quarter is once again open for business. Handing off the broom and stuffing his cold, greying hands into his pockets, Danta is forced to linger for a couple of moments to give a few further orders and make more preparations, anticipating residual paperwork even with Kiada's tight hold on the region in their absence.

But that's for tomorrow.

"Okay," he says with a smile that's all teeth to hide the way they're trying to chatter. "Let's go the fuck home for that shower?"

Dantalion

// with every step that I ran to you //

Astaroth

// but if you think I'm misery,

The murderous intent doesn’t exactly die out, so much as it hides deep down in the chill of his bones and the greying of his hands as his smile grows sharper for Danta’s quip and follow up slap of his tail. Still, he does as he’s told – snagging the next broom offered up with a thanks that’s hissed between his grin, shadows vibrating against his shoulders again like a little cloak awaiting blood.

Alas, there’s only rain to be found, biting and colder as the minutes pass by. At least it doesn’t take that long to get the road cleared, handing off the broom before he snaps the wood in half, he very gladly meets Danta’s toothy smile with his own, nodding his head as a few strands of dark black hair falls into his face that aren’t quite long enough for the tie. “Say less, darling.” Comes the purr.

Careful to pick their way back into a space that isn’t completely coated by mud, the soreness in the butcher’s arms grows heavier and heavier, creating a ball of flame in his hands to warm the greying fingers and offering it out for Danta to indulge himself, too. “That was horrible.” He admits, nose wrinkling as they head toward the Last Whisper, his voice deepening in his accent as he whines. “I would much rather it be blood than mud.”

then baby, all the company,
it never leaves me alone, no //

// you knew who I was //

"I don't know if I'm capable," Danta says with a smirk to himself as they start to hurry back towards the square, thoroughly drenched and with the drum of the rain continuing to wick away any warmth they might try to kindle. Saying less isn't really in his wheelhouse, as the butcher would well know. Still, as Asta creates the ball of flame he lets out a sigh of instant relief, pulling his greying hands from his pockets to let his fingers dance through the other man's pulse of power.

Muttering his thanks and trying to ignore the weariness that tries to worm its way into every step, as he takes his hands back and wipes at his face, he's pleased to see some of the mud finally coming away without any fresh dirt to replace it. "At least we might be a little cleaner by the time we get home," he says quietly, glancing up so he can concentrate on hurrying down the steps to the Last Whisper.

It's even cooler down here, alas, though there's less actual mud to deal with right now and more just rivulets of dirty water, Danta trying to avoid the puddles and making a beeline for the Dusklight. "You're right, though. This is fucking miserable."

Dantalion

// with every step that I ran to you //

Astaroth

// but if you think I'm misery,

“You always did try to get the last word.” He drawls as they walk and try to evade the rain, warming their hands in the fire he’s created. Holding it out for Danta to do the same, the mud slowly starts to fall away from their fingers from the heat and rain that sizzles and hisses as it collides with the ball of fire.

Humming a note of agreement, the butcher focuses on the stairs with his still muddy boots, scowling at one of the enemies he harbors here as they scurry down the steps. Making it without any further incident, the dark haired Ancient wastes little time focusing immediately on the shortest path toward the Dusklight, even as Danta evades the puddles. The butcher cares little for it — already a mess as he is.

“Thank Dygra,” He breathes alongside Danta as he reaches the door, swinging it open to let his lover in first, already ready to be on his heels for the march inside. The heat is vibrant already, pulsing with the movement of bodies and the fireplace and bodies within and already Asta feels better even as they get quite a few longing looks as they emerge, muddy and handsome despite the fact they look like drowned rats.

Casting a glance to the bartender, it’s with that same too sharp smile and flick of his tail that he rumbles a “do not start.” As they pass by, more than willing to leave them to handle it while they clean up. Besides, he isn’t too sure that he could manage it from the soreness in his muscles. “I miss Flora’s hot tub already.” He whines to Danta’s back.

then baby, all the company,
it never leaves me alone, no //

// you knew who I was //

"I still do. Especially if I'm gagged." Danta grins to himself, dusting off his hands as the mud dries out, flexing his fingers now that there's more feeling in them as well. While he puddle jumps he can all but hear the butcher prowling across the cobbles behind him, uncaring of the streams of water or the continuing downpour, and while he doesn't say it, he completely agrees with Asta's sentiment when he holds the door open to the Dusklight.

Muttering his thanks and ducking inside into the wall of heat, it's simultaneously a relief and also even more uncomfortable, his drenched clothes feeling searingly cold and heavy as they wend their way across the main floor. Asta snarks at the bartender and, in comparison, Danta offers a lazy salute, ducking through the side door that will take them up to their rooms.

"Gods, you don't have to remind me," he grumbles, glancing over his shoulder towards his whining shadow as they plod upstairs. "Hopefully the shower is even a fraction as good as the hot tub was." It can't be worse than what they just walked through, surely.

Danta has to pause outside their room for once to unlace and tug off his muddy boots, setting them outside before he unlocks the door, still dripping and muddy and thoroughly fed up about it. As he walks in he's already setting the fire roaring in the hearth, clumsily unbuttoning his coat and unlooping his sodden scarf from around his neck. "If I didn't like some of these clothes so much I'd just burn them," he says with a wrinkle of his nose, hanging his coat up and starting to peel off his shirt.

Dantalion

// with every step that I ran to you //

Astaroth

// but if you think I'm misery,

That’s true – there was very little except for sleep that kept the Maverick from offering the last word, such that he lets him keep that one as well as his main focus becomes getting to the Dusklight in as short amount of time as possible so he can warm up as quickly as he can. Already he feels his arms growing stiffer by the passing second, the slow sluggish pull of his fingers when he opens the door for Danta to slip in first.

He trails him, still grumpy, still annoyed – and if he’d been able to partial shift everyone would be able to see just how upset he was. For now, though, it’s with the faux too sharp grin that gives him away, following the Maverick like the good bodyguard he was. “We are certainly going to Frey’s Breath tomorrow.” He murmurs, in case there were any other thoughts. “So for now, it should be enough to withstand the wait.” The shower, that is.

Actually, anything to get all this mud off of himself.

He slips out of his boots outside of their room as well, trailing after the Maverick into the comfort of their space and the bone chimes that dance from the mezzanine with the flux of air from the door swinging open and the rush of heat from the fire that Danta grows. He closes the door behind them, locking it with practiced ease, turning back to Danta with the whip of his tail in slight annoyance even as he takes in Danta hanging up his coat and peeling off his shirt.

He follows suit, slipping out of his jacket that he can’t hang, thanks to the mud coating half of it, dropping it into a pile before he’s adding his shirt and pants to it. “Leave it in a pile, darling, I will take care of it.” He’d become a master at getting blood out of his clothing, he’s positive mud can’t be that bad. And if it is, well, all the more reason for a spree outside of the Inner Quarter.

Mud coats his skin even beneath the shirt in dark strokes up his sides and against his scars, though he pays it little mind as he fights to remove the hair tie from his hair, eventually just snapping it in the process and letting the mud thick strands fall against his face, heavy and limp.

then baby, all the company,
it never leaves me alone, no //

// you knew who I was //

"Mm?" It isn't often - if ever - that Asta tells him to leave anything in a pile, but as Danta pulls the shirt over his head he can understand the request, nodding and adding his own clothes to the pile without any further complaint. He's also chill and soaked and streaked with mud beneath his clothes, skin pallid in places where he's gotten too cold, though he's not in danger of turning to stone just yet.

Reaching up to ease the tie out of his hair with practice and patience, he's about to reach and offer to do the same for the butcher when he hears the quiet snap! of it, Danta biting back his smile. "I'm sensing a little bit of tension in you, sugar," he purrs, though his amusement fades somewhat as he catches a glance at the bruises standing out between the mud on the butcher's skin. "You did crash hard into that cliff, huh," he murmurs, recalling their draconic adventures earlier.

"Come on." Beckoning him towards the bathroom, his tail swishing at his heels, Danta doesn't waste any time in turning the shower on to let it warm up to scalding, the Maverick fussing around and tossing a few flavoured steamers in there for good measure. Fragrant steam soon starts to fill the air, filling the room with the scent of lavender and chamomile.

Dantalion

// with every step that I ran to you //

Astaroth

// but if you think I'm misery,

“I will clean them.” The butcher confirms, flashing a still annoyed and sharp smile at his lover as if that was all the explanation needed. If anything, keeping the mud to one section of their room was much more preferred than spreading it all around the floorboards. And while they continue to get prepped for the shower, it gives the butcher a moment to try and remove the hair tie that keeps the dark muddy locks of hair out of his face.

It snaps under the pressure and as he opens his mouth to say something along the lines of I’ll get you another one, he’s silenced as he catches Danta’s gaze surveying him and the bruises blooming under the mud marks left behind. “I have never had a flighted shift before.” Comes the quiet admission, the slight sigh, the way he does and doesn’t agree that he’d crashed hard into a cliff because of it.

Danta was there to witness it, anyway. Still, his nose wrinkles with the thought before it fades as he’s beckoned toward the bathroom, following his lover into the space as the water is turned on to the hottest setting, steam filling up the room quickly. As Danta adds scents, the butcher very pointedly does not look at the mirror to see the caked mud on the side of his face and stuck in his beard. “I am… Sore. And far dirtier than I would prefer to be.” If it was blood, it was a different story. At least that was fun. But it might be enough to explain the tension in his bones, still thrumming and looking for an out.

The twitch of his ashen, muddy tail, suggests that he’s perhaps a bit embarrassed too. From crashing into a cliff and completely throwing himself into the mud? There’s a bit of bruised pride there, too.

then baby, all the company,
it never leaves me alone, no //

// you knew who I was //

"Oh shit, that's right," Danta says, as if belatedly realising that it hadn't just been Asta's first time handling flight as a dragon, but in general ever too. "You did very well, all things considered," he boasts, waiting for the steam to grow heady and scented and scalding before he draws the shower door open, reaching back to catch the butcher's wrist.

"Luckily," he chimes, "this will be very good at helping with both of those things." Tugging him beneath the hot spray of water, it goes without saying that Asta can feel free to sulk and brood as much as he likes; Danta is more interested in getting the butcher clean than bothering with the state of himself at first, happier to let the hot water warm him through before he washes the mud away.

"Here, let me see," he says, reaching up to carefully tease the mud out of Asta's hair and beard until the water starts to run clearer, the room around growing obscure through the clouds of fragrant steam.

Dantalion

// with every step that I ran to you //

Astaroth

// but if you think I'm misery,

The boast is greeted with a soft snort of disbelief – his dark honey gaze landing on the Maverick with a raise of a brow half caked in mud. “You are just saying that.” If he’d done well, he wouldn’t have crashed so hard into the side of a canyon and had to figure his way out getting to the top of it.

Caught easily by his wrist, it takes very little to convince him to slip into the shower. The heat already starts to loosen him up physically, but mentally he still feels a touch reserved, guarded, even when he knows he doesn’t have to be. There’s tension in his jaw despite the smile he sends Danta’s way, tension in his shoulders that reveal sore muscles in lieu of the mud that had coated it previously. As the mud begins to slowly slough off him, the bruise to his side and arm are much more visible, a deep red that blooms purple in the center.

He closes his eyes as the Maverick’s hot hands loosen the mud from his hair and beard, indulging in the feeling as he reaches out blindly to rest his hands against Danta’s sides, his thumbs stroking the underside of his ribs as if reminding himself to return the favor. “Thank you, love.” He says quietly.

then baby, all the company,
it never leaves me alone, no //

// you knew who I was //

"I am not," Danta sings back childishly, even as he reaches for the shampoo to start to lather it into Asta's hair, adding the scent of coconut and vanilla to the mix. "It's unfair to compare us in that sort of thing anyway. The crow was my first shift - I've been flying since I can remember. It'd be like asking me to scent something out as a fyrhund." To say he would be clueless is an understatement.

Twisting indulgently into the other man's touch as he helps in his own way to clean him up in turn, only as he guides Asta beneath the jet of water to rinse his hair does he respond. "We'll be better prepared to go out there next time," he says warmly; better suited for the pouring rain, the clammy cold, the potential for mudslides and dirt.

And hopefully there won't be any further crashing, whether that's to the ground or against canyons. "After Frey's Breath tomorrow, do you want to practice again?" he suggests, unsure given the state of the deep bruising on the other man's body. Only once he's content that Asta is entirely free of mud does he look at it properly, scrunching his nose.

"Maybe some painkillers with dinner, take the edge off?" he suggests.

Dantalion

// with every step that I ran to you //

Astaroth

// but if you think I'm misery,

“Mm, I was not comparing to your capabilities.” The butcher hums, nose wrinkling slightly. “I suppose I just thought I would be better at it.” It feels a lot like when he’d broken out of Whitebrim, where he’d been faced with sudden events that he had to navigate without the proper tools to. It isn’t Danta’s fault, nor is it his own. It just was.

His hands smooth along his sides as Danta turns, eyes still shut as he’s guided under the water to get the bulk of mud from his hair to rinse it – it’s when he withdraws and opens his eyes that his dark gaze surveys the state of Danta, with droplets clinging to his eyelashes before they fall and run down his cheeks to hide in the scruff of his jaw. “Yes, we shall.” He agrees definitively, darkly, as if he hasn’t been planning it in advance ever since he threw himself into the mud.

Shifting slightly so Danta can inspect the bruising, the butcher’s focus is reinvigorated on the Maverick, his hands actually moving helpfully to scan Danta’s skin for the mud where he begins to cup water and wash it away. “Sure, darling. Painkillers do not sound like a bad idea, either.” At least in the Climb he’d be limber enough to move again. Though the heat of the shower helps immensely already, his mood slowly improving as he surges forward for a kiss of gratitude despite his bad mood.

then baby, all the company,
it never leaves me alone, no //

// you knew who I was //

"How very you to assume you'd nail flying the first time you took to the air," Danta hums, amused, though his touch remains warm and gentle as he teases Asta's wet hair back behind his horns. "You'll get there," he promises, his expression softening into something quietly grateful as he feels the butcher's touch skim across his flesh, the hot water washing him clean with every careful pass of his hands.

"It could have always been worse, besides," he says. "No one was around to see it happen, right?" An audience to see Asta crashing into the cliffs would likely be much worse than a few Grounders bearing witness to him falling in the mud. He doesn't have a chance to say that much, though, glancing up just as his lips are caught by a sudden kiss.

Melting into the unexpected affection, Danta automatically steps forward to shrink the distance between them. One hand lingers against Asta's hips, the other cradling the back of his neck and pressing, slow and warm, into the cords of tense muscle he finds there. "It wasn't all bad, surely?" he whispers as he parts, lips curling in a smirk.

Dantalion

// with every step that I ran to you //

Astaroth

// but if you think I'm misery,

It was very much a vibe for the butcher to believe he could manage something with flying colors or ten out of tens on the first try. Perhaps because it has been so long since he’d had to learn something new, in a season that has allowed him to feel the most like himself for half of a year. Deep down, though, it was arrogance and the assumption it couldn’t be that hard, when it actually was.

His hair is back where it should be, at least, and he doesn’t have to feel the stickiness of mud on his face or his eyes every time his nose scrunches. Relief swells with it and allows him to focus more on the Maverick, not giving either of them a chance to respond to the quip of a crowd as he claims his lips in a kiss.

Danta shrinks the distance between them and one hand sweeps around to spread his hands against his lower back, the other rising to tug mud and dirt free from the golden strands of his lover's hair. “I did have an audience when I threw myself into the mud.” He admits in a low hum against his lips. He twists them slightly after a moment of enjoying the little massage, so that he can press him against the wall of the shower, pinning him by his hips as he leans back to run his hands more fully through his hair, losing more and more of the mud in dark rivers of water down his skin and the butcher’s arms.

“But no, it was not all that bad. We did finally get home and did not turn to stone in the muck.” It could be worse, right?

then baby, all the company,
it never leaves me alone, no //