// make me bleed if you need to confirm that it's something i can do //
His dark eyes light up when she plucks one of the blades from the table, inspecting it as though he might have a better idea in mind. Not that Asta would complain, of course, if she did have a preference for another one. He just happened to have quite a few lying around that he thought might be beneficial (given he’s the butcher). He brightens when she says she’ll help, though, his tail weaving behind him like a content canine as he beams his shark tooth smile toward her.
“Perfect, darling.” He says on the heels of her dart! And when she returns, it’s with the room fully enclosed and the charm of keeping whatever they got up to in here solely in here that the butcher relaxes even more. He doesn’t shy away from her touch as it trails up his arm, to his bicep, over the clothes he wears that are far more dressed down than he typically was. So with a warm chuckle escaping him, he inclines his head as if in agreement. “You do drive a vital point.”
Given the season, it’s far easier for the butcher to take the step back from the slab she’s settled on - to reach up and unbutton the shirt he wears so that he can slip it off and fold it neatly, keeping it on the far end of the slab of rock to prevent it from getting messy. But it also reveals all of his scars to her that he can’t recall if she’d actually fully seen with her own eyes rather than by touch. The gnarled scar tissue sits raised against his skin, flecks of other scars falling into the mixture here and there, dark pink ropes of tissue that pinch and pull with each movement - though it seems evident that Asta doesn’t care, so they must not bother him.
“Now, where would you like me?” He asks, ensuring he hands her the reins.
“Perfect, darling.” He says on the heels of her dart! And when she returns, it’s with the room fully enclosed and the charm of keeping whatever they got up to in here solely in here that the butcher relaxes even more. He doesn’t shy away from her touch as it trails up his arm, to his bicep, over the clothes he wears that are far more dressed down than he typically was. So with a warm chuckle escaping him, he inclines his head as if in agreement. “You do drive a vital point.”
Given the season, it’s far easier for the butcher to take the step back from the slab she’s settled on - to reach up and unbutton the shirt he wears so that he can slip it off and fold it neatly, keeping it on the far end of the slab of rock to prevent it from getting messy. But it also reveals all of his scars to her that he can’t recall if she’d actually fully seen with her own eyes rather than by touch. The gnarled scar tissue sits raised against his skin, flecks of other scars falling into the mixture here and there, dark pink ropes of tissue that pinch and pull with each movement - though it seems evident that Asta doesn’t care, so they must not bother him.
“Now, where would you like me?” He asks, ensuring he hands her the reins.
Astaroth
// and i'll paint it red //
