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
Sleep evades the butcher, despite the lull he’s tried to put himself into. Rain flits against the window to his room, at times hitting so hard that it nearly sounds like rocks are getting thrown against the glass. There’s a bottle of whiskey already missing some of its contents, a tray of food plucked at, notes written out and crumpled and tossed into the fire he keeps high and bright.
By the time he’s been tossing and turning in the bed, completely sleepless and a little drunk, the butcher rises with a sigh and rubs at his face for a few long moments. Vest gone, shirt tugged on half buttoned, his hand meets the doorknob before the hesitation can fully grip him.
He finds suddenly that he doesn’t care what Flora would think, (or if she even cared in the first place), and maybe there’s a fucked up additional fleeting thought of what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her, because unfortunately the Maverick has conditioned the butcher into the comfort of a warm body in his bed, and now with the Theocrat down the hall in the same building but not the same room, he finds it impossible to swallow.
He doesn’t want to be alone tonight.
The door swings open at precisely the time Danta’s squinting into his door to read the number, and having not expected it the butcher’s instincts immediately have him reaching for the Theocrat before his mind can catch up and actually say anything, tugging him in and shutting the door to push him back against the wood, sharp teeth made even sharper with the glint of flame reflected. “Oh.” He breathes out a second after the realization sinks in, fingertips twitching like he isn’t sure what to do.
By the time he’s been tossing and turning in the bed, completely sleepless and a little drunk, the butcher rises with a sigh and rubs at his face for a few long moments. Vest gone, shirt tugged on half buttoned, his hand meets the doorknob before the hesitation can fully grip him.
He finds suddenly that he doesn’t care what Flora would think, (or if she even cared in the first place), and maybe there’s a fucked up additional fleeting thought of what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her, because unfortunately the Maverick has conditioned the butcher into the comfort of a warm body in his bed, and now with the Theocrat down the hall in the same building but not the same room, he finds it impossible to swallow.
He doesn’t want to be alone tonight.
The door swings open at precisely the time Danta’s squinting into his door to read the number, and having not expected it the butcher’s instincts immediately have him reaching for the Theocrat before his mind can catch up and actually say anything, tugging him in and shutting the door to push him back against the wood, sharp teeth made even sharper with the glint of flame reflected. “Oh.” He breathes out a second after the realization sinks in, fingertips twitching like he isn’t sure what to do.
Astaroth
i swear it's nothing personal - i swear it's nothing personal //////
