They say I'm a dangerous man, better run fast as you can
“Ah, I look forward to it, darling.” And he does, shamelessly, which still feels so weird for the butcher. Even still, the sharp smile aimed his lover’s way is one that grows sharper toward the deckhand with his idle chatter, the easy conversation that feels like grating words on his soul as he moves box after box. Dust and salt crusted edges cling to the sleeves of his shirt and chest as he deposits another box down, only offering short commentary in return, leaving it for Danta to answer in all the colorful, playful ways he often did.
And when Danta sets the last crate down from the ship, the butcher’s standing on the dock with his tail still flicking at his heels, watching the Maverick with shameless adoration, arms crossed, leaning against the stack of crates with his hip and his shoulder. “A reward.” Asta corrects playfully, because motivation at the end of the day was simply just to receive a reward. Whether it was the answer to the strangeness he feels or the promise of a nap.
The proud boast has him straightening up, though, the laugh escaping him in disbelief — even though it does seem to make sense. He’d never experienced it before in order to equate it. Th laugh dies down and he rubs at his face, before he threads his hands in his hair to brush the dark strands back and out of his face, walking the short distance back to Danta to wrap him in a hug. “I may have always had antlers, but I have never had a feirw shift until recently. So… I suppose that makes sense why I have never felt like this before.” And certainly not for this long.
Fleeting feelings, perhaps, the brief moment when blood struck the air and Danta looked at him a certain way. Moments that lasted seconds, rather than minute after minute. "What else must we do, or have I succeeded in not stealing still-attached fingers?"
And when Danta sets the last crate down from the ship, the butcher’s standing on the dock with his tail still flicking at his heels, watching the Maverick with shameless adoration, arms crossed, leaning against the stack of crates with his hip and his shoulder. “A reward.” Asta corrects playfully, because motivation at the end of the day was simply just to receive a reward. Whether it was the answer to the strangeness he feels or the promise of a nap.
The proud boast has him straightening up, though, the laugh escaping him in disbelief — even though it does seem to make sense. He’d never experienced it before in order to equate it. Th laugh dies down and he rubs at his face, before he threads his hands in his hair to brush the dark strands back and out of his face, walking the short distance back to Danta to wrap him in a hug. “I may have always had antlers, but I have never had a feirw shift until recently. So… I suppose that makes sense why I have never felt like this before.” And certainly not for this long.
Fleeting feelings, perhaps, the brief moment when blood struck the air and Danta looked at him a certain way. Moments that lasted seconds, rather than minute after minute. "What else must we do, or have I succeeded in not stealing still-attached fingers?"
Astaroth
Don't you look back, every bone in my body's bad
