They say I'm a dangerous man, better run fast as you can
She doesn’t seem convinced, as far as Asta can tell. And perhaps part of it is the block mentally from the bloodlust that has finally been sated, from the exhaustion that weighs heavy in his bones like lead. Not too heavy to where he can’t give her his full attention, however raw and primal and predatory it is. He can see it in her, even if she can’t quite come to grips with it herself. Because if she didn’t have a streak of black in that beautiful heart of hers, she wouldn’t be able to sit here with him as she does.
But she’s here. She’s right beside him, knee deep in the pooling blood just as he is, skin drying and flaking with scarlet that looks so devastatingly stunning on her skin. It’s a distraction as he scans her, studying her face as she murmurs, even if Asta is less than convinced she believes it. Perhaps now, when they’re within arms reach, but when she’s back home and they’re thousands of miles away, he imagines it’s harder to believe.
And there isn’t really anything the butcher can do to alleviate it other than try to prove to her that even when those dark thoughts slip in, staining the bright pages of her mind like a spill of ink, there might be something there to staunch it. He’s silent as they stare at each other, as she takes him in and searches him - really searches him, and he watches her back. Raw and unholy, a being made of chaos and nightmares who’s heart is made of nothing more than black obsidian, with channels carving through them for those he loves. Danta is there, of course, but there’s a portion carved out for Flora, too. Thalassa and Charlie, all networking tunnels through the pit of inky, oily black that makes up the butcher’s chest.
It's what makes him turn toward her, still harboring that gritty reverence, reaching up to cup her cheeks with his bloodstained hands, to draw himself in to press his forehead against hers as he closes his eyes as if in prayer. “There are two sides to the same coin, yes? And you and I harbor both. The side everyone else gets to see and then there’s this.” He withdraws from her, keeping a hand on her cheek as he gestures to the wolf, cooling now that it’s succumbed. “I can’t say I understand what you went through because I can’t. What I can say is that the anger you feel will not go away easily. It’s up to you whether you let it fester and take over,” the hand on the wolf finds the blade sticking out of its chest, twisting with expert movements to slice through the fur to get to the meat of the wolf, before twisting to carve through the fallen predator. “Or you carve it out and embrace it.” And for him?
He is a carver. The gentleman butcher.
But she’s here. She’s right beside him, knee deep in the pooling blood just as he is, skin drying and flaking with scarlet that looks so devastatingly stunning on her skin. It’s a distraction as he scans her, studying her face as she murmurs, even if Asta is less than convinced she believes it. Perhaps now, when they’re within arms reach, but when she’s back home and they’re thousands of miles away, he imagines it’s harder to believe.
And there isn’t really anything the butcher can do to alleviate it other than try to prove to her that even when those dark thoughts slip in, staining the bright pages of her mind like a spill of ink, there might be something there to staunch it. He’s silent as they stare at each other, as she takes him in and searches him - really searches him, and he watches her back. Raw and unholy, a being made of chaos and nightmares who’s heart is made of nothing more than black obsidian, with channels carving through them for those he loves. Danta is there, of course, but there’s a portion carved out for Flora, too. Thalassa and Charlie, all networking tunnels through the pit of inky, oily black that makes up the butcher’s chest.
It's what makes him turn toward her, still harboring that gritty reverence, reaching up to cup her cheeks with his bloodstained hands, to draw himself in to press his forehead against hers as he closes his eyes as if in prayer. “There are two sides to the same coin, yes? And you and I harbor both. The side everyone else gets to see and then there’s this.” He withdraws from her, keeping a hand on her cheek as he gestures to the wolf, cooling now that it’s succumbed. “I can’t say I understand what you went through because I can’t. What I can say is that the anger you feel will not go away easily. It’s up to you whether you let it fester and take over,” the hand on the wolf finds the blade sticking out of its chest, twisting with expert movements to slice through the fur to get to the meat of the wolf, before twisting to carve through the fallen predator. “Or you carve it out and embrace it.” And for him?
He is a carver. The gentleman butcher.
Astaroth
Don't you look back, every bone in my body's bad
