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
Somehow, the thought of Flora staging a set up to traumatize him is a spark of humor in an otherwise incredibly dark mood – and a deep husky chuckle passes by the butcher’s lips ending on a sigh to hear her continue. He doesn’t look at her – can’t, while the topic of handling the gore crows had gone for him. He by no means is better at it, but it helped having someone there that wasn’t trying to trap him, wasn’t trying to prove a point. It helped having someone that cared enough to help him ground himself.
It's a thought that has him pausing his steps briefly, as if he’s tripped when in reality he’s simply trying to catalogue his thoughts. “Would’ve been worse if you hadn’t helped.” Comes the easy admission, one that segues well into Maea’s bullshit and ferns that fling back with a loud swish! as Flora passes by them again and again and Astaroth seems to care little for the scratchy leaves as they touch his deadened nerve endings over the scar tissue on his chest.
“Yeah.” He agrees with an annoyed huff, content to utilize his distaste for the pale Ancient to take his thoughts away from iridescent wings and the scent of blood and pain. “She had the fuckin’ audacity to tell me that she thought the way I punished people was wrong? And-and that she wanted to do to them the same punishment that I went through. Because it was… supposed to be humane? Or something?” He becomes animated, his voice dripping with that sharp grit, hands gesturing in front of him until he pauses and lets his blackened gaze look back at her with a wild look like can you fucking believe that?
In reality, Maea hadn't really understood the specifics (like the majority of people that Asta has told about how he'd received the scars) and likely hadn't meant to draw those parallels. But they were there, and Astaroth was nothing if not a grudge holder.
It's a thought that has him pausing his steps briefly, as if he’s tripped when in reality he’s simply trying to catalogue his thoughts. “Would’ve been worse if you hadn’t helped.” Comes the easy admission, one that segues well into Maea’s bullshit and ferns that fling back with a loud swish! as Flora passes by them again and again and Astaroth seems to care little for the scratchy leaves as they touch his deadened nerve endings over the scar tissue on his chest.
“Yeah.” He agrees with an annoyed huff, content to utilize his distaste for the pale Ancient to take his thoughts away from iridescent wings and the scent of blood and pain. “She had the fuckin’ audacity to tell me that she thought the way I punished people was wrong? And-and that she wanted to do to them the same punishment that I went through. Because it was… supposed to be humane? Or something?” He becomes animated, his voice dripping with that sharp grit, hands gesturing in front of him until he pauses and lets his blackened gaze look back at her with a wild look like can you fucking believe that?
In reality, Maea hadn't really understood the specifics (like the majority of people that Asta has told about how he'd received the scars) and likely hadn't meant to draw those parallels. But they were there, and Astaroth was nothing if not a grudge holder.
Astaroth
i swear it's nothing personal - i swear it's nothing personal //////
