// as long as there's bread and as long as there's an appetite //
The butcher can only agree with that sentiment, even if Danta would find it amusing versus the horror that Astaroth would likely imagine when it came to where exactly the patrons would end up putting these cookies. At any rate, at least it would give them something in their stomachs to compliment the alcohol or whatever else (and whomever else) they’re indulging in.
The butcher himself indulges in clinking his glass with the Maverick’s, flashing him a soothing yet still just as sharp and dangerous smile. “Are you feeling better now, darling?” He asks, bouncing a dark brow flecked with flour before he takes a sip of the cider once the question has left his lips, swallowing down the sweet apple, pear, and cinnamon cider. “The net only gets more tangled the more the fish thrash, wouldn’t you agree?” Tipping a wink, the butcher has grown bolder in his affections and ability to show it (though a lot of it is given the season, one that reverts parts of him toward claiming comfort and warmth, hence the floury sweater he wears), and he leans in and steals a chaste kiss as the underlings flit around.
Withdrawing far too shortly, he sets the glass down to pluck one of the jams (strawberry it seems from the color within the glass), and withdraws two spoons – one for Danta and one for himself. “Pick which you wish to start with.” A quiet and playful demand, before he bends over the counter and the trays a little to put the jam into the divots Danta had so lovingly created.
The butcher himself indulges in clinking his glass with the Maverick’s, flashing him a soothing yet still just as sharp and dangerous smile. “Are you feeling better now, darling?” He asks, bouncing a dark brow flecked with flour before he takes a sip of the cider once the question has left his lips, swallowing down the sweet apple, pear, and cinnamon cider. “The net only gets more tangled the more the fish thrash, wouldn’t you agree?” Tipping a wink, the butcher has grown bolder in his affections and ability to show it (though a lot of it is given the season, one that reverts parts of him toward claiming comfort and warmth, hence the floury sweater he wears), and he leans in and steals a chaste kiss as the underlings flit around.
Withdrawing far too shortly, he sets the glass down to pluck one of the jams (strawberry it seems from the color within the glass), and withdraws two spoons – one for Danta and one for himself. “Pick which you wish to start with.” A quiet and playful demand, before he bends over the counter and the trays a little to put the jam into the divots Danta had so lovingly created.
Astaroth
// as long as everyone you need is stepping in line, you are camouflaged //
