— frozen grounds and leafless trees
For all intents and purposes, the butcher is basically dead. All the fire and vigor of the previous season has escaped him as if it was merely a blanket that had been removed. So when Danta rises, opens the curtains of their den and is greeted by the winter storm outside? Asta hasn’t moved. He’s still curled up in their bed, face and horns buried into the side of the pillow, sleeping a deep and sound sleep even as Danta jostles the bed slightly to curl back into it.
The only real sign that the butcher hasn’t simply died is the slow thrum of his pulse, the malleable way his arm moves to wrap around Danta in his sleep, the way his subconscious has his ashen tail winding loosely around his lover’s leg and the way his bearded chin presses down into a mercifully hornless crown of golden, sleep tousled hair. There’s another slow inhale, followed by the slow exhale that’s nothing more than a gruff, hoarse, “mm?” As he tucks his chin down against Danta's head again and his fingers make half hearted attempts at drawing a little design in the dip of the blonde's spine.
The only real sign that the butcher hasn’t simply died is the slow thrum of his pulse, the malleable way his arm moves to wrap around Danta in his sleep, the way his subconscious has his ashen tail winding loosely around his lover’s leg and the way his bearded chin presses down into a mercifully hornless crown of golden, sleep tousled hair. There’s another slow inhale, followed by the slow exhale that’s nothing more than a gruff, hoarse, “mm?” As he tucks his chin down against Danta's head again and his fingers make half hearted attempts at drawing a little design in the dip of the blonde's spine.
Astaroth
the woods will haunt you like a frigid breeze —
