// with our one foot in the grave //
Hands gentle on his shoulders to avoid the bruising over scars, Astaroth hides the wince in favor for the comfort it gives as Danta pulls him closer. His own arms tighten against bruises, his head adjusting against where he’s pressed it in hard to the Maverick’s sternum, letting the soothing feeling of the blonde’s fingers overcome everything else Asta feels oily about inside.
The sweetness of the tone is also familiar, like their promises in the Climb from before of showing each other what a true fight looked like. A dangerous hint that has him silent for a few moments longer. “She followed me.” And here, he brushes over the important things, the notable things. Of how he’d lost control to the fyrhund in his panic, of how the fyrhund had chosen to fight to get her to leave when she simply continued to be that judgemental statue until his body was too tired to continue. He leaves out the fact that he stopped because the bruises were too much to bear and the rawness of his throat had him coughing up blood.
“After all of that, she told me that I was an easy target to place her fear and her angst onto, then asked me if I could keep her in check if she went down the wrong path.” Asked him to do that for her, after all of this. And gods as the words spew from his lips he feels oily and wrong and awful, like a snitch constantly going to the regional leader with problems he should be able to solve himself.
It’s just another reminder that he’s become so fucking weak.
It burns in the back of his throat, and is evident in how his fingers twist into Danta’s shirt tightly as if betraying his thoughts when he continues. “I told her that I wanted to kill her. She bloodbooned me and said ‘go ahead’, and I just.. I just left.” Anticlimactic where he’d ended up running himself into a brick wall over and over again in the midst of his panic attack, resulting in precisely this dreadful and sorry state.
And while he doesn’t kick himself physically for it, mentally he certainly does.
The sweetness of the tone is also familiar, like their promises in the Climb from before of showing each other what a true fight looked like. A dangerous hint that has him silent for a few moments longer. “She followed me.” And here, he brushes over the important things, the notable things. Of how he’d lost control to the fyrhund in his panic, of how the fyrhund had chosen to fight to get her to leave when she simply continued to be that judgemental statue until his body was too tired to continue. He leaves out the fact that he stopped because the bruises were too much to bear and the rawness of his throat had him coughing up blood.
“After all of that, she told me that I was an easy target to place her fear and her angst onto, then asked me if I could keep her in check if she went down the wrong path.” Asked him to do that for her, after all of this. And gods as the words spew from his lips he feels oily and wrong and awful, like a snitch constantly going to the regional leader with problems he should be able to solve himself.
It’s just another reminder that he’s become so fucking weak.
It burns in the back of his throat, and is evident in how his fingers twist into Danta’s shirt tightly as if betraying his thoughts when he continues. “I told her that I wanted to kill her. She bloodbooned me and said ‘go ahead’, and I just.. I just left.” Anticlimactic where he’d ended up running himself into a brick wall over and over again in the midst of his panic attack, resulting in precisely this dreadful and sorry state.
And while he doesn’t kick himself physically for it, mentally he certainly does.
Astaroth
// while the other one's kicking its way right down to hell //
