you were destined for the glory, the honor and the fame
i was destined for the bullet, to be the gun with no name
i was destined for the bullet, to be the gun with no name
Maybe he will, maybe he won’t. Maybe next time Astaroth will be too blinded by his own bliss that he’ll conveniently forget to outdo himself. Only time would tell.
For now, though, he’s content to let Danta battle with the blankets without help (the butcher has done plenty, as far as he’s concerned). And only when the warmth of them spreads over his hips and lower back does Asta fully sink into the warmth. He nearly doesn’t find it in him to respond, letting the exhaustion of vacation and dragging pleasure from the other man lull him partially away. But it’s the next statement Danta makes that Astaroth focuses on, called back from the brink of sleep.
“Mm? Oh.” Feeling the gentle traces of fingers along his skin, Asta nuzzles into Danta’s touch more. “Flora had this oil of sorts she used on them.” He says, trying to recall that time (it had been their first date, if memory serves.) “It did not fade them as much, but it did soften them. I am sure there is magic of some kind out here that would.” Even Dygra might be willing to do such a thing, and the thought is nearly just as tempting as any other ideas sparked from pre-bedtime relaxation. “I don’t know if I would regain as much feeling even if they were faded.” He says now that he’s thinking about it. The scar tissue had been a strong barrier for nerve endings (whichever ones that hadn’t been damaged, that is). And while he could feel touch and sensation quite strongly elsewhere, his chest feels deadened. Like trying to poke and prod through jean and leather layers. Still there, but not as sharp, not as immediately distracting.
For now, though, he’s content to let Danta battle with the blankets without help (the butcher has done plenty, as far as he’s concerned). And only when the warmth of them spreads over his hips and lower back does Asta fully sink into the warmth. He nearly doesn’t find it in him to respond, letting the exhaustion of vacation and dragging pleasure from the other man lull him partially away. But it’s the next statement Danta makes that Astaroth focuses on, called back from the brink of sleep.
“Mm? Oh.” Feeling the gentle traces of fingers along his skin, Asta nuzzles into Danta’s touch more. “Flora had this oil of sorts she used on them.” He says, trying to recall that time (it had been their first date, if memory serves.) “It did not fade them as much, but it did soften them. I am sure there is magic of some kind out here that would.” Even Dygra might be willing to do such a thing, and the thought is nearly just as tempting as any other ideas sparked from pre-bedtime relaxation. “I don’t know if I would regain as much feeling even if they were faded.” He says now that he’s thinking about it. The scar tissue had been a strong barrier for nerve endings (whichever ones that hadn’t been damaged, that is). And while he could feel touch and sensation quite strongly elsewhere, his chest feels deadened. Like trying to poke and prod through jean and leather layers. Still there, but not as sharp, not as immediately distracting.
Astaroth
fate's been playing the long game on us, sweetheart
