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
It’s a good thing that Danta knows what it is, because Astaroth can’t place the feeling he’s currently feeling rebel around his ribcage. So much so that he keeps his face buried, like he can pretend that he hadn’t asked for it, even though it had been both a mixture of exactly what he’d wanted but with the implications that were too far for him to be comfortable with. And it isn’t Danta’s fault, he knows that, nor does he blame him for doing exactly what he wanted in the moment. But he sighs back into the pillow, horned head shaking as he listens, before lifting himself from the pillow enough to respond coherently – even if it still lacked all of his Climb formality. “Obviously I don’t.” He hadn’t wanted to then either, which is why he’d managed to even be here at all.
Still, in the peripherals of his vision, he can see the way Danta both wants to reach for him and doesn’t, even as the rest of the words pour against wounds he hadn’t realized existed until he’d heard someone else say his name. “No, no. Just..” Fuck, it was tough to explain. He doesn’t even know where to start. So perhaps, much like in Levinsward, they leave it lie with the smallest amount of explanation possible.
If looks could kill, his pillow would be dead a million times over. Exhaling and running a hand through his hair, delicately enough to not ruin the braid still stuck behind a horn, Astaroth twists in the bed so that he’s on his back, staring stubbornly up at the ceiling all while he reaches for the Maverick to pull him back in. “I wanted you to. It’s just.. I don’t know, the first time I’ve heard it in a really fucking long time. Sorry.” I didn’t know how it would feel coming from your lips in particular.
Still, in the peripherals of his vision, he can see the way Danta both wants to reach for him and doesn’t, even as the rest of the words pour against wounds he hadn’t realized existed until he’d heard someone else say his name. “No, no. Just..” Fuck, it was tough to explain. He doesn’t even know where to start. So perhaps, much like in Levinsward, they leave it lie with the smallest amount of explanation possible.
If looks could kill, his pillow would be dead a million times over. Exhaling and running a hand through his hair, delicately enough to not ruin the braid still stuck behind a horn, Astaroth twists in the bed so that he’s on his back, staring stubbornly up at the ceiling all while he reaches for the Maverick to pull him back in. “I wanted you to. It’s just.. I don’t know, the first time I’ve heard it in a really fucking long time. Sorry.” I didn’t know how it would feel coming from your lips in particular.
Astaroth
i swear it's nothing personal - i swear it's nothing personal //////
