lord help anyone who stands in my way; for I am not merciful, and i am not kind
and i am not afraid to make you wish that i was
and i am not afraid to make you wish that i was
It is surprising, in his drunken state, to find that when they part and his head feels lightheaded, Danta’s words are as soothing as they had been frightening merely a season ago. And he finds that he craves it; the feeling of it, the fact that he was wanted for so much more than just what destruction his hands are capable of. He loves him too, despite being unable to say as much with the subsequent press of Danta’s lips to his. He simply settles to say it in the smooth swipes of his hands, the way his tail curves in harder in response, the way that he wants to drown himself in everything Danta’s provided him with.
They part again and the butcher’s head spins, panting for breath with the slow drip of blood still from his tongue that’s managed to find the corner of his mouth, reddening it against his bronzed skin and dark beard. “I am very drunk.” He whispers back as if it’s a correction, despite it being the same fact. And after there are options laid out, of whether he should walk, drink some water, go to sleep. He doesn’t know which he’d prefer in the moment, not with how he soaks up the heat of the fire and Danta in his lap, but he figures he needs to offer a response anyway.
“A walk. I want to go outside and get some fresh air.” He wants to feel the cool Longheat night air on his face, he wants to drift too close to the bonfire to singe the edge of his waistcoat in flecks of melted fabric, snapping threads. He wants the calm mixed with the chaos.
The only trouble would be getting there.
They part again and the butcher’s head spins, panting for breath with the slow drip of blood still from his tongue that’s managed to find the corner of his mouth, reddening it against his bronzed skin and dark beard. “I am very drunk.” He whispers back as if it’s a correction, despite it being the same fact. And after there are options laid out, of whether he should walk, drink some water, go to sleep. He doesn’t know which he’d prefer in the moment, not with how he soaks up the heat of the fire and Danta in his lap, but he figures he needs to offer a response anyway.
“A walk. I want to go outside and get some fresh air.” He wants to feel the cool Longheat night air on his face, he wants to drift too close to the bonfire to singe the edge of his waistcoat in flecks of melted fabric, snapping threads. He wants the calm mixed with the chaos.
The only trouble would be getting there.
Astaroth
say your prayers now
