If you're standing in the cold out of fear your flaws will show
“It’s lovely.” He hums, at odds with Danta’s furrowed brow as he ferries him closer, only for the suction to completely steal his boot. It takes everything for the butcher to not laugh so vibrantly - letting it melt into the smile on his face instead, his voice definitely betraying the amusement lingering in him. “That is what happens when you stand in place for too long, love.” He touts playfully - because he knows that while Danta gets his boot back on his foot, it’ll definitely mean that Asta sinks in enough that both his boots will require freedom.
He is happy to help him get it back on, though, and when he gets onto the stump and free from the quicksand the mud has become, the butcher’s balance is thrown off as he tries to wiggle his feet enough to get some air beneath the soles of his feet so that it might free him, too. His tail flicks behind him and with a few yanks, he manages to get the boots free.
At the cost of his balance, of course, falling back against the roots to climb up on to join the Maverick, his back and arms already dark with muck. “It would be perfect if there was a bridge.” He hums, though the grin on his face in spite of the mud is still vibrant, as if it was still wonderful as is (even without a bridge). And while Danta starts to hack pieces off, the butcher drifts around it almost reverently, fingers splaying along the trunk of the tree to pull away the blood red sap between his fingers, purely delighted. “How can I help, darling?” He asks, hand still outstretched against the bark away from where Danta’s preparing to hack at it, looking back at his lover with bright eyes.
He is happy to help him get it back on, though, and when he gets onto the stump and free from the quicksand the mud has become, the butcher’s balance is thrown off as he tries to wiggle his feet enough to get some air beneath the soles of his feet so that it might free him, too. His tail flicks behind him and with a few yanks, he manages to get the boots free.
At the cost of his balance, of course, falling back against the roots to climb up on to join the Maverick, his back and arms already dark with muck. “It would be perfect if there was a bridge.” He hums, though the grin on his face in spite of the mud is still vibrant, as if it was still wonderful as is (even without a bridge). And while Danta starts to hack pieces off, the butcher drifts around it almost reverently, fingers splaying along the trunk of the tree to pull away the blood red sap between his fingers, purely delighted. “How can I help, darling?” He asks, hand still outstretched against the bark away from where Danta’s preparing to hack at it, looking back at his lover with bright eyes.
Astaroth
We can live out where the warmth is 'til our names are etched in stone
