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?
It is absolutely for the best that Danta pretend as if the butcher doesn’t exist. Because those few days he’d spent amongst the burning, hard ground of the Climb, he seemed to be the only focus for the gore crows. Food had been what he was, and the second that the word had spread across the intelligent corvids, well, the butcher had become the dinner and the table to talk around.
So the less attention he receives, the better, and it allows him to compartmentalize as he watches Moira continue to seemingly doze off and on, and his lover wearing the most nightmarish shift for him does nothing more than preen his feathers. He’d find it amusing, if it weren’t for the way he continues to follow the specific breathing pattern he’s learned. And he finds himself wondering, for a split second before his stress tells him hey what the fuck, what exactly Danta’s feathers felt like when they weren’t felt in passing.
His focus sharpens almost immediately upon Moira, though, because Danta continues to keep his distance and the sleepy companion makes her hopping approach. Each one sends sharp, icy tendrils of dread to spark, but Astaroth continues to chime his mantra internally, continues to breathe slowly as he focuses intensely on her. He’d offered snacks and she knows it. Only this time he isn’t drunk like before to make the sensation easier to ignore.
Still, he does it. He shifts his legs up underneath him, tail coiled tightly around him and the blanket settled comfortably both around his shoulders and draping over his chest to pool into his lap as he pulls out the bag of mixed nuts, snagging one. His thumb rubs over the surface for a few moments as he takes some steadying breaths, before he tosses it toward her – his dark gaze flicking up to Danta for only a moment before returning to the companion.
So the less attention he receives, the better, and it allows him to compartmentalize as he watches Moira continue to seemingly doze off and on, and his lover wearing the most nightmarish shift for him does nothing more than preen his feathers. He’d find it amusing, if it weren’t for the way he continues to follow the specific breathing pattern he’s learned. And he finds himself wondering, for a split second before his stress tells him hey what the fuck, what exactly Danta’s feathers felt like when they weren’t felt in passing.
His focus sharpens almost immediately upon Moira, though, because Danta continues to keep his distance and the sleepy companion makes her hopping approach. Each one sends sharp, icy tendrils of dread to spark, but Astaroth continues to chime his mantra internally, continues to breathe slowly as he focuses intensely on her. He’d offered snacks and she knows it. Only this time he isn’t drunk like before to make the sensation easier to ignore.
Still, he does it. He shifts his legs up underneath him, tail coiled tightly around him and the blanket settled comfortably both around his shoulders and draping over his chest to pool into his lap as he pulls out the bag of mixed nuts, snagging one. His thumb rubs over the surface for a few moments as he takes some steadying breaths, before he tosses it toward her – his dark gaze flicking up to Danta for only a moment before returning to the companion.
Astaroth
come a little closer
