run, baby, run, run for your life
i'ma tear out your heart, it'll always be mine
i'ma tear out your heart, it'll always be mine
“Youuuu make an amazing blanket.” Purring softly, the butcher nestles in, thankful for the drop of the glamour so that he can press his masked face in harder against Danta’s golden crown. His body continues to fight the sedative, going between a mix of tension and a quiet panic. A soft hum follows the way his body continues to bounce around the potentials, settling into the comfort of the mask on his face and trying to utilize that as a way of providing himself the comfort that he should be okay while he sleeps.
Update: he isn’t.
Eventually his body gives up the fight and he sinks into his sedated sleep, unable to stay awake any longer. They have the mercy of it having been at least six or seven hours before the butcher stirs — enough that the deepest of the sedative has begun to wear off. It leaves him in that awful limbo of being so asleep he doesn’t dream and being “awake” enough to let the dark creativity of his mind get to work.
Initially, there’s some stirring, a low thrum of a sound akin to a whine — a sound far more fitting of his soul shift than the man himself — but it lingers nonetheless. The sound stops in a pitched end, which precedes the short and rough inhales of breath, sharp as if in pain (which he is, but not in the way the nightmare would have him think).
He moves, untangling himself from Danta, away from feeling so smothered. And whispered there along the heavy panting breaths, the butcher’s Whitebrim accent is in full force, emitting a barely there “nnnnnno, nonono,” where he makes the mistake of not realizing the pain is radiating from his shoulder and collarbone, and it makes a sickening crunching sound as the sling is forgone in lieu of reaching up to get the muzzle off his face, suddenly trembling from the pain but fighting on through it anyway as he realizes only one hand seems to work in this dream-not-dream. The other feels numb, or maybe that’s the pain blotting out everything else.
Update: he isn’t.
Eventually his body gives up the fight and he sinks into his sedated sleep, unable to stay awake any longer. They have the mercy of it having been at least six or seven hours before the butcher stirs — enough that the deepest of the sedative has begun to wear off. It leaves him in that awful limbo of being so asleep he doesn’t dream and being “awake” enough to let the dark creativity of his mind get to work.
Initially, there’s some stirring, a low thrum of a sound akin to a whine — a sound far more fitting of his soul shift than the man himself — but it lingers nonetheless. The sound stops in a pitched end, which precedes the short and rough inhales of breath, sharp as if in pain (which he is, but not in the way the nightmare would have him think).
He moves, untangling himself from Danta, away from feeling so smothered. And whispered there along the heavy panting breaths, the butcher’s Whitebrim accent is in full force, emitting a barely there “nnnnnno, nonono,” where he makes the mistake of not realizing the pain is radiating from his shoulder and collarbone, and it makes a sickening crunching sound as the sling is forgone in lieu of reaching up to get the muzzle off his face, suddenly trembling from the pain but fighting on through it anyway as he realizes only one hand seems to work in this dream-not-dream. The other feels numb, or maybe that’s the pain blotting out everything else.
Astaroth
run, baby, run, run for your life
