so give me your prayers up on your feet
and i'll give you a show, it helps fill the seats
and i'll give you a show, it helps fill the seats
He’s used to that. He’s used to letting Danta go and remaining where he is as the Maverick compartmentalizes it after having pushed himself away to come back into himself. This time, though, it’s different. And gods, he should have known. He should have realized the second Danta rolled into a crouch, his mind suddenly replacing the nighttime woods around them for the dark fiery din of the Climb.
Where they’d fight. Where Danta would square up to him just like this. And so out of shape for a fight like this as the butcher is, he’s forced to press back against the carcass of the bear, pulling himself up as the fire does surprise him and blind him, only for Danta to launch through the flames, a blood crusted blade in hand that has his name on it.
He thinks, in that split moment, of snuffing his glamour out. But he’s reminded quickly that he’d used that as a trick a few too many times. Unassuming, horns vanishing, only for them to come back ten times worse as his primal self was freed. “Danta!” He urges through grit teeth, hissing as his Theocrat collides with him.
He is pinned, and his gut reaction says to do the same thing he once might have done — lock his leg and tail around Danta’s body where he could reach and twist them so he’d always come out on top — but if he wasn’t fully aware of where he was, that probably wasn’t going to help.
It would just seem to prove more that he’s that version of himself.
So, against all of his better judgement, he sucks in a breath and goes limp, chin tilted down to at the very least protect his throat from the assault he knows is likely coming, his voice dropping to something rougher, an edge of pleading, the perfect mix of Astaroth and Ferox. “It’s okay. We’re not in the Climb. The year is 319. You’re free and safe.” And maybe if Danta’s still out of it and does slip the blade in, his breath might hitch, it won’t stop him from adding “and I love you.”
Where they’d fight. Where Danta would square up to him just like this. And so out of shape for a fight like this as the butcher is, he’s forced to press back against the carcass of the bear, pulling himself up as the fire does surprise him and blind him, only for Danta to launch through the flames, a blood crusted blade in hand that has his name on it.
He thinks, in that split moment, of snuffing his glamour out. But he’s reminded quickly that he’d used that as a trick a few too many times. Unassuming, horns vanishing, only for them to come back ten times worse as his primal self was freed. “Danta!” He urges through grit teeth, hissing as his Theocrat collides with him.
He is pinned, and his gut reaction says to do the same thing he once might have done — lock his leg and tail around Danta’s body where he could reach and twist them so he’d always come out on top — but if he wasn’t fully aware of where he was, that probably wasn’t going to help.
It would just seem to prove more that he’s that version of himself.
So, against all of his better judgement, he sucks in a breath and goes limp, chin tilted down to at the very least protect his throat from the assault he knows is likely coming, his voice dropping to something rougher, an edge of pleading, the perfect mix of Astaroth and Ferox. “It’s okay. We’re not in the Climb. The year is 319. You’re free and safe.” And maybe if Danta’s still out of it and does slip the blade in, his breath might hitch, it won’t stop him from adding “and I love you.”
Astaroth
so give me your sins, give me your lies
but whisper your love, and i'll whisper mine
but whisper your love, and i'll whisper mine
