love, do you want love?
do you want lust? say you don't know
do you want lust? say you don't know
Suspicion or not, Astaroth doesn’t care. What he does care about is the fact that the man he’s supposed to escort is actively working on bleeding out – and the butcher, for as sharp and shark-like his teeth are – can’t think of anything else but the blood that infiltrates his nose in a tinge of iron and the shadows of gore crows behind his lids each time he blinks.
So it’s with a heavy sigh that he tries to stretch out – chastising himself to get it together as a mantra in the back of his mind – until he blinks his surprise at Flora’s question, blatantly ignoring Jack for the moment and uncaring whatever he intends to do with his shirt. “I’m uh…” He trails off, not sure what the fuck to say. Sure, he’d love to go and drift off and have his panic attack somewhere else. Or, he could go back to the Dusklight and prowl into the establishment and seek out the bottle of Halovian whiskey he knows Danta’s stashed somewhere and thrive as a Frankenstein version of himself and Ferox.
The latter sounds better, though, and he realizes belatedly he’s been staring at her as the muscles feather in his jaw and he shakes his horned head to get out of the thought space a little bit. “Going home. To the Dusklight. You can come too, if you want to.” He understands if she doesn’t want to. He wouldn’t even blame her if she didn’t. Between the abyss of his thoughts right now and the departed pleasantries and disheveled state, the butcher isn’t sure what good it would do whether she did or didn't join him.
But at least she’d asked to accompany him, rather than silently following him while he has his breakdown.
So it’s with a heavy sigh that he tries to stretch out – chastising himself to get it together as a mantra in the back of his mind – until he blinks his surprise at Flora’s question, blatantly ignoring Jack for the moment and uncaring whatever he intends to do with his shirt. “I’m uh…” He trails off, not sure what the fuck to say. Sure, he’d love to go and drift off and have his panic attack somewhere else. Or, he could go back to the Dusklight and prowl into the establishment and seek out the bottle of Halovian whiskey he knows Danta’s stashed somewhere and thrive as a Frankenstein version of himself and Ferox.
The latter sounds better, though, and he realizes belatedly he’s been staring at her as the muscles feather in his jaw and he shakes his horned head to get out of the thought space a little bit. “Going home. To the Dusklight. You can come too, if you want to.” He understands if she doesn’t want to. He wouldn’t even blame her if she didn’t. Between the abyss of his thoughts right now and the departed pleasantries and disheveled state, the butcher isn’t sure what good it would do whether she did or didn't join him.
But at least she’d asked to accompany him, rather than silently following him while he has his breakdown.
Astaroth
maybe you just like the control
