// with our one foot in the grave //
The warmth of Danta’s chest pressed up against his back and the comfort of his arms wound around the blanket pairs nicely with the heat of the Maverick’s breath from where he’s nosed into his hair, and Astaroth finds it perhaps the most comforting moment he’s ever experienced. Not that he’ll admit to any of it, but it’s clear in the way his body sags, the way he stares out the window to watch the lightning with the utmost content. “I have always enjoyed thunderstorms.” The butcher admits. It was a perfect combination of natural making, in his opinion. Beautiful to look at and to listen to, horribly destructive if given the chance to be.
Not moving despite how Danta does to inspect his throat – he’ll find zero bruising on it and nothing but the curl of long dark hair that’s still somewhat damp where it seems to be glued to his skin. “No, I am alright right now.” If you think that he’ll let you go Danta now that he is in precisely the most comfortable spot in the entirety of his long life, you are wrong. “I tore up my throat and lost my voice.” He says absentmindedly again, nestling into Danta’s chest a bit more, taking a slightly longer breath as the wine deadens his pain receptors. And as he speaks, Danta would certainly be able to hear the way it’s a hint deeper, rougher, raspier despite Maea’s bloodboon on it. It hadn’t healed him completely, but enough to speak and stop wheezing.
Speaking of which; “I coughed up a fair amount of blood.” Thanks to any internal injuries sparked from the bruises that litter his body. At least that had stopped, but it hadn’t stopped the sickness inside him, the stomach acid from burning lancing heat through his esophagus.
Not moving despite how Danta does to inspect his throat – he’ll find zero bruising on it and nothing but the curl of long dark hair that’s still somewhat damp where it seems to be glued to his skin. “No, I am alright right now.” If you think that he’ll let you go Danta now that he is in precisely the most comfortable spot in the entirety of his long life, you are wrong. “I tore up my throat and lost my voice.” He says absentmindedly again, nestling into Danta’s chest a bit more, taking a slightly longer breath as the wine deadens his pain receptors. And as he speaks, Danta would certainly be able to hear the way it’s a hint deeper, rougher, raspier despite Maea’s bloodboon on it. It hadn’t healed him completely, but enough to speak and stop wheezing.
Speaking of which; “I coughed up a fair amount of blood.” Thanks to any internal injuries sparked from the bruises that litter his body. At least that had stopped, but it hadn’t stopped the sickness inside him, the stomach acid from burning lancing heat through his esophagus.
Astaroth
// while the other one's kicking its way right down to hell //
