am i the wolf or the savior?
is my smile too sharp or just my teeth?
is my smile too sharp or just my teeth?
“No.” Astaroth decides then and there that he needs to be better. He has to at least try. Because for all of the ways Danta has conceded to him, he feels as if he’s done absolutely nothing in return except offer more scars (of a different kind, at least, but permanent reminders nonetheless). “I am positive, darling.” He reiterates, letting his gaze flit back up to his sunshine lover in the reflection of the large mirror, past the hand that tugs at a lock of midnight hair that would likely be a bang of some sort should he have worn his hair differently.
He only lets go when the comb runs through his hair and he straightens to make it easier, even as his gaze drifts from the reflection of Danta and the way things feel suddenly so off. Like Danta would wish to continue to bury his own needs to continue to make the day more comfortable for the butcher, and gods if it doesn’t open that yawning pit within him. Even the tone of his lover’s voice is different, tentative, as if he’s thousands of miles away from the fact that he’s about to trim his hair.
Horn and tailless the butcher may be, but an Ancient he fully remains as he sparks flame from his fingertips and dances it up Danta’s arm toward his neck and cheek in an affectionate nuzzle while he tugs at the hand with the comb as if to pull him forward. “Come here, love,” it’s a gentle request, one that he doesn’t give his lover too much choice in evading. Once he’s managed to either pull Danta in between his chair and the mirror or to spin in the chair to face him, he lets a crooked and sharp smile bloom on his face as he stuffs any and all anxieties that have sparked, down into the tarry pit of his soul. “It would be good for me. And I need you to be at your perfectly stunning, confident self if you intend to cut my hair.” His hornless head angles as he lets his smile twist more genuine, pointed up at the blonde, hoping to be as soothing as can be.
He only lets go when the comb runs through his hair and he straightens to make it easier, even as his gaze drifts from the reflection of Danta and the way things feel suddenly so off. Like Danta would wish to continue to bury his own needs to continue to make the day more comfortable for the butcher, and gods if it doesn’t open that yawning pit within him. Even the tone of his lover’s voice is different, tentative, as if he’s thousands of miles away from the fact that he’s about to trim his hair.
Horn and tailless the butcher may be, but an Ancient he fully remains as he sparks flame from his fingertips and dances it up Danta’s arm toward his neck and cheek in an affectionate nuzzle while he tugs at the hand with the comb as if to pull him forward. “Come here, love,” it’s a gentle request, one that he doesn’t give his lover too much choice in evading. Once he’s managed to either pull Danta in between his chair and the mirror or to spin in the chair to face him, he lets a crooked and sharp smile bloom on his face as he stuffs any and all anxieties that have sparked, down into the tarry pit of his soul. “It would be good for me. And I need you to be at your perfectly stunning, confident self if you intend to cut my hair.” His hornless head angles as he lets his smile twist more genuine, pointed up at the blonde, hoping to be as soothing as can be.
Astaroth
come a little closer
