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
Gods he hates it. But the gentle scolding very nearly has him flinch – has him twitching with the gentleness of which Danta says it. The shuddery exhale leaves him and he finds that the blood still in his mouth begins to taste like ash the longer he goes berating himself in the interim. His head tilts up, dark gaze red and puffy and swimming as they glance to his lover’s face, so fragile and small compared to his otherwise daunting appearance when he agrees. Concedes.
Gives up.
He watches numbly as Danta slinks out of the bed, his jaw working hard enough he can feel the smooth edges of his molars grind against one another before he grits his teeth in another flurry of pain. He only stops when the flicker of light occurs, the drapes pulled back enough that the butcher can glimpse the smooth dawn encroaching, and it gives him enough light to see what he’s working with.
A towel is snagged from the side table, dabbed at the drying bloodstains in the sheets before left to try and soak as much as possible. And in this time, before Danta returns, the butcher’s back is pressed against the headboard, the broken and numb arm cradled against his chest and his lap, his forehead pressed up against drawn knees.
He can hear Danta’s approach, and he forces himself to look up, so silent as his dark gaze flits from the cocktail to the water, slowly unfurling himself enough to take the pills and swallow them down with the water before he sets it back and nods stiffly. “Yeah. It’s.. It’s bad.” He admits, still with that too much Whitebrim tone to his voice, but at least the face beneath it truly is the butcher. Especially as he glances toward his lover's arm to see it bandaged and better than bleeding out as it had been before.
Gives up.
He watches numbly as Danta slinks out of the bed, his jaw working hard enough he can feel the smooth edges of his molars grind against one another before he grits his teeth in another flurry of pain. He only stops when the flicker of light occurs, the drapes pulled back enough that the butcher can glimpse the smooth dawn encroaching, and it gives him enough light to see what he’s working with.
A towel is snagged from the side table, dabbed at the drying bloodstains in the sheets before left to try and soak as much as possible. And in this time, before Danta returns, the butcher’s back is pressed against the headboard, the broken and numb arm cradled against his chest and his lap, his forehead pressed up against drawn knees.
He can hear Danta’s approach, and he forces himself to look up, so silent as his dark gaze flits from the cocktail to the water, slowly unfurling himself enough to take the pills and swallow them down with the water before he sets it back and nods stiffly. “Yeah. It’s.. It’s bad.” He admits, still with that too much Whitebrim tone to his voice, but at least the face beneath it truly is the butcher. Especially as he glances toward his lover's arm to see it bandaged and better than bleeding out as it had been before.
Astaroth
run, baby, run, run for your life
