[SE] or christ, hold me like a knife

// with our one foot in the grave //

He’s right but that doesn’t make it any better. All he can do is roll his eyes, deflate playfully, even as he gives the people what they dont want, by covering himself up at least halfway.

As Danta settles onto the bed beside him and starts to write, Astaroth snags a piece of paper and a pen as well, scribbling down a multitude of things he was still upset about. His weaknesses, his traumas, his inability thus far to be that terrible monster he had once been. And if there’s a crude drawing of the pale ancient with white ram horns, well, it’s hidden by the way he neatly folds it into true origami, a crow or raven by the looks of it.

Watching the vague shape of a tree Danta has folded, settle into the fire, Astaroth holds up his paper. “I don’t hate you for the record. Or Moira.” He admits, knowing it’s obvious but feeling inclined to say it anyway, staring at the crow shaped paper before he cradles it in his hands and guides a stream of fire over to start burning away the origami’s feet, swallowing it up whole and leaving his hands empty with a pile of ash.

Astaroth

// while the other one's kicking its way right down to hell //