run, baby, run, run for your life
i'ma tear out your heart, it'll always be mine
i'ma tear out your heart, it'll always be mine
The betrayal that blooms in Danta’s face is immediately taken as a jest when he sees that familiar handsome wrinkle to his lover's nose, however brief it might be with the way he fits himself in against his chest and his neck. His arms wrap around him easily, too, keeping him close and letting him settle, offering idle chit chat until the tell tale sound of Danta succumbing to sleep fully takes over.
It’s easy for the butcher to stay awake, surprisingly. Angled just perfectly to peer out the window that the curtain remains open in, watching streaks of rain that pour down the side of it like little tears. And in between that and the press of the Maverick against him, he’s busy scanning the panes of his face, the sharp edge of his cheekbone, the rise and fall of his chest with the deep breaths of sleep.
He isn’t quite quick enough to move them in time for Danta’s glamour to return, and as soon as it’s shed one of the prongs of his diamond horns snags against the pillow with a quiet little rrrrrip! spilling a few feathers down in amongst the gold of his hair.
The uneven breaths and the lashing tail have him immediately loosening the tight hold he has on him; knowing intimately that in many of these dreams, it’s him that’s the cause. And not just him, either, but the boxing and caging him in, pinning him into place. It’s the last thing he wants to do should Danta wake now, but he’ll face every consequence he needs to in order to still keep him close.
His hand makes a smooth stroke against his shoulder, not pinning or cornering, but a soft and gentle touch paired with the low hum of “you’re okay, darling. I promise.” His accent is thicker, closer to the Whitebrim variant of the butcher, and Asta has taken all precaution into dragging each and every portion of his haunt into himself so he doesn’t wake up to smiling shadows.
It’s easy for the butcher to stay awake, surprisingly. Angled just perfectly to peer out the window that the curtain remains open in, watching streaks of rain that pour down the side of it like little tears. And in between that and the press of the Maverick against him, he’s busy scanning the panes of his face, the sharp edge of his cheekbone, the rise and fall of his chest with the deep breaths of sleep.
He isn’t quite quick enough to move them in time for Danta’s glamour to return, and as soon as it’s shed one of the prongs of his diamond horns snags against the pillow with a quiet little rrrrrip! spilling a few feathers down in amongst the gold of his hair.
The uneven breaths and the lashing tail have him immediately loosening the tight hold he has on him; knowing intimately that in many of these dreams, it’s him that’s the cause. And not just him, either, but the boxing and caging him in, pinning him into place. It’s the last thing he wants to do should Danta wake now, but he’ll face every consequence he needs to in order to still keep him close.
His hand makes a smooth stroke against his shoulder, not pinning or cornering, but a soft and gentle touch paired with the low hum of “you’re okay, darling. I promise.” His accent is thicker, closer to the Whitebrim variant of the butcher, and Asta has taken all precaution into dragging each and every portion of his haunt into himself so he doesn’t wake up to smiling shadows.
Astaroth
run, baby, run, run for your life
