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
Ah, if only it were that simple. The butcher doesn’t complain, though, doesn’t offer a retort, because each breath grows more and more measured as the pain starts to hit stronger, as the adrenaline wears down with the prospect of being healed. So he’s silent as they drift through, offering those smiles in return to the healers that smile toward them. And he feels the reluctance in Danta’s touch as he’s pulled away, a murmur that he’ll be back soon leaving his lips before Danta is left in the waiting room.
The removal of the blade comes with it a fresh gush of blood, a quiet grunt as he ensures he remains quiet, fighting every urge within him to be louder from the pain before the sweet relief of the healers spark through. The waistcoat is saved, but the shirt is not, but Asta had expected as much when he’d initially agreed to hunt like this. Even still, he looks quite the mess with the splatter of blood on his face, clinging and sticking in clumps in his hair, speckling the delicate gold chains that adorn his antlers.
But eventually, relief floods through him as the dressing is wrapped, strict instructions to not wear his usual tight-fitting waistcoats to allow the wound to breathe and heal beneath the medical dressing and further instruction on just how to clean the wound in between. And with a lot of quiet gratitude for their resident healers, the butcher reemerges from the back rooms.
He steps up to Danta, breaths still measured and careful, with the perhaps fixable waistcoat over his arm, shirtless aside from the dressing that hides the damage, and a little rattle of a bottle of pain medication in the pocket of his dark slacks, stained darker with blood. “Ready to head home, darling?” He asks, voice lighter than it had been, returning to his usual flare as he immediately reaches for his lover to wind his arm around his middle.
Bracing himself for what was to come. Because it wasn't going to be fun in the slightest, but it has to happen.
The removal of the blade comes with it a fresh gush of blood, a quiet grunt as he ensures he remains quiet, fighting every urge within him to be louder from the pain before the sweet relief of the healers spark through. The waistcoat is saved, but the shirt is not, but Asta had expected as much when he’d initially agreed to hunt like this. Even still, he looks quite the mess with the splatter of blood on his face, clinging and sticking in clumps in his hair, speckling the delicate gold chains that adorn his antlers.
But eventually, relief floods through him as the dressing is wrapped, strict instructions to not wear his usual tight-fitting waistcoats to allow the wound to breathe and heal beneath the medical dressing and further instruction on just how to clean the wound in between. And with a lot of quiet gratitude for their resident healers, the butcher reemerges from the back rooms.
He steps up to Danta, breaths still measured and careful, with the perhaps fixable waistcoat over his arm, shirtless aside from the dressing that hides the damage, and a little rattle of a bottle of pain medication in the pocket of his dark slacks, stained darker with blood. “Ready to head home, darling?” He asks, voice lighter than it had been, returning to his usual flare as he immediately reaches for his lover to wind his arm around his middle.
Bracing himself for what was to come. Because it wasn't going to be fun in the slightest, but it has to happen.
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
