reaching for a book of matches
strike a light and then you'll see the real mess that i am
strike a light and then you'll see the real mess that i am
The drumming of fingertips along his neck and the sudden awkwardness that yawns in the pit of the butcher’s stomach – he does feel somewhat different, allowing his formality to fall away in favor for that deeper, richer accent of his. Why he’s suddenly so nostalgic, he doesn’t know, but it yawns like a pit within him that he wishes he’d have put back into its place. Especially as he lets his real name escape him, aired into the space of his room, centuries and then some since the last time he’d heard it.
The silence feels weighty and the butcher closes his eyes, as if he can pretend that it hadn’t come out, or that Danta won’t simply immediately torment him with it. It’s that stillness that’s more predator than anything else, tense in his shoulders as if ready to pull away – vulnerability something that is incredibly difficult for the cannibal to manage.
His eyes open at the genuine tones that drawl from the blonde, a flicker of confusion before he tilts his head back to look at Danta, debating with himself in silence whether he does want to be called that again.
Settling on no, not entirely, he cocks his head a little and shifts to sit up, getting a bit closer to Danta’s face in the process. “No. But.” His nose wrinkles as more of that honestly comes pouring out, that tone of his voice that isn’t entirely his anymore, like he’s wearing an old coat he’s certainly grown out of. “I do want to hear you say it. Once, at least, before never hearing it again.”
He has no idea why, but something about it seems necessary suddenly. Even as his dark eyes can’t focus on the vibrant blues of the Theocrat’s, choosing instead to watch his lips to hear his original name fall from them.
The silence feels weighty and the butcher closes his eyes, as if he can pretend that it hadn’t come out, or that Danta won’t simply immediately torment him with it. It’s that stillness that’s more predator than anything else, tense in his shoulders as if ready to pull away – vulnerability something that is incredibly difficult for the cannibal to manage.
His eyes open at the genuine tones that drawl from the blonde, a flicker of confusion before he tilts his head back to look at Danta, debating with himself in silence whether he does want to be called that again.
Settling on no, not entirely, he cocks his head a little and shifts to sit up, getting a bit closer to Danta’s face in the process. “No. But.” His nose wrinkles as more of that honestly comes pouring out, that tone of his voice that isn’t entirely his anymore, like he’s wearing an old coat he’s certainly grown out of. “I do want to hear you say it. Once, at least, before never hearing it again.”
He has no idea why, but something about it seems necessary suddenly. Even as his dark eyes can’t focus on the vibrant blues of the Theocrat’s, choosing instead to watch his lips to hear his original name fall from them.
Astaroth
i swear it's nothing personal - i swear it's nothing personal //////
