Astaroth
// i ride the edge, my speed goes in the red //
He expects to hear more explanations, more excuses, more well, just because you suffered too doesn’t mean others need to! and it takes an edge off of his shell he’s been building, even as he remains hunched, shoulders tight, back to her. His hand loosens a fraction in his hair and drops to his neck, both arms crossed over his chest where the worst of his scars sit, and he once again can’t find words to answer her with, as if the tightness of his throat and the blood still tainting his tongue copper prevented him from even making an attempt.
What he can do, though, is spit it out – crimson amongst the melting snow, to try and loosen up the tension that’s bled into his shoulders. He might actually be sick, a rare occurrence for the butcher, but the nausea roils in his gut as foreign of a feeling as the one that has him sucking down a sharp breath that isn’t near long enough before he does it again. He concedes, turning toward her halfway, spitting another mixture of blood and sudden saliva from the nausea that fills the inside of his mouth.
“Of course I can.” He grits out through a stubborn and tight breath, “I do believe you.” Because why else were they having this discussion if she viewed his much less horrific acts as monstrous as wanting to have it where it couldn’t be seen or known to fall under the guise of happening in the Grounds, in a place harsher.
Despite having half turned, he hasn’t looked at her just yet. Stubbornly reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose as if it would stop his eyes from being so red and watery, hating himself for having even let this happen. Only when he thinks it works enough does he let his dark gaze land on her, cold and hurt and shadowed even further, unsure what to say or if he even can say anything from the lump in his throat, the air fighting for space in his lungs.
What he can do, though, is spit it out – crimson amongst the melting snow, to try and loosen up the tension that’s bled into his shoulders. He might actually be sick, a rare occurrence for the butcher, but the nausea roils in his gut as foreign of a feeling as the one that has him sucking down a sharp breath that isn’t near long enough before he does it again. He concedes, turning toward her halfway, spitting another mixture of blood and sudden saliva from the nausea that fills the inside of his mouth.
“Of course I can.” He grits out through a stubborn and tight breath, “I do believe you.” Because why else were they having this discussion if she viewed his much less horrific acts as monstrous as wanting to have it where it couldn’t be seen or known to fall under the guise of happening in the Grounds, in a place harsher.
Despite having half turned, he hasn’t looked at her just yet. Stubbornly reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose as if it would stop his eyes from being so red and watery, hating himself for having even let this happen. Only when he thinks it works enough does he let his dark gaze land on her, cold and hurt and shadowed even further, unsure what to say or if he even can say anything from the lump in his throat, the air fighting for space in his lungs.
// hot blood, these veins, my pleasure is their pain //
