// with our one foot in the grave //
One thought that rebounds in his head is whether or not the Maverick, amongst his many talents, is a mind reader. But he quickly reminds himself that isn’t the case. If anything, despite how aloof and solitary Astaroth was (or wanted to be), it’s clear as can be that the blonde knows him. Deep down. What thoughts would race through his head, what kind of anxieties would spark, how to correctly deal with the panic attacks that twist and turn his stomach and brain inside out.
He very nearly whines again with the loss of Danta’s hands on his cheeks only to be obliged with them on his shoulders, soaking up the warmth as his hand drops to the other Ancient’s elbow, nodding slowly even as the edges of the room spin with the movement. He doesn’t move to the bed as Danta squeezes his shoulders gently and steps away, instead he draws the blanket around him bit tighter in the absence of their shared warmth.
Dark eyes track him to ensure he doesn’t leave, and only relaxes when Danta’s back at the windowsill, the blanket falling slightly from his shoulders to rest around his biceps and chest, where purple splotching appears amongst centuries old scar tissue. He reaches up to snag a piece of salami from the plate, sharp teeth tearing through it without a single issue at all, swallowing it down before he glances out the window again. “What kind of drugs are they?” He asks out of pure curiosity, because the amount of times the butcher has been under the influence of anything other than alcohol is essentially next to none.
He very nearly whines again with the loss of Danta’s hands on his cheeks only to be obliged with them on his shoulders, soaking up the warmth as his hand drops to the other Ancient’s elbow, nodding slowly even as the edges of the room spin with the movement. He doesn’t move to the bed as Danta squeezes his shoulders gently and steps away, instead he draws the blanket around him bit tighter in the absence of their shared warmth.
Dark eyes track him to ensure he doesn’t leave, and only relaxes when Danta’s back at the windowsill, the blanket falling slightly from his shoulders to rest around his biceps and chest, where purple splotching appears amongst centuries old scar tissue. He reaches up to snag a piece of salami from the plate, sharp teeth tearing through it without a single issue at all, swallowing it down before he glances out the window again. “What kind of drugs are they?” He asks out of pure curiosity, because the amount of times the butcher has been under the influence of anything other than alcohol is essentially next to none.
Astaroth
// while the other one's kicking its way right down to hell //
