i'm the escape to something that's worse
i am the shadow driving the hearse
i am the shadow driving the hearse
He straightens to let her look him over, even if every inch of him wants to hide away from it. He knows better, he needs this if he’s to get better.
It doesn't mean he has to like it, though. And it becomes evident as she warns him — even if it’s a shit warning. The butcher surrenders the limp arm into her touch and as she straightens it, each careful masked attempt to hide the pain goes right out the window.
His shadows flare out across the floor in spiky, needles, his voice throaty and disembodied unintentionally when he growls out a curse, tail whipping back and forth under the stool creating a fan-type push of air against Danta’s legs. “Fucking hells.” He grits out, shutting his eyes tight, murmuring a quiet apology to the healer even if he’s being good and still as can be with his arm in her hands.
His skin begins to knit itself back together, the first wound slowly stitching back together. And maybe it’s a sign of the pain when he grips the counter til his fingertips are white, but given the fact Ancients can’t sweat from heat, condensation gathers in his temples, wicked away with the heat Danta offers through his hair, sweating solely from pain. He peels himself away just enough from the death grip to grab the brandy when offered, downing it as quickly as he can in the hopes it’ll melt the pain away.
It doesn't mean he has to like it, though. And it becomes evident as she warns him — even if it’s a shit warning. The butcher surrenders the limp arm into her touch and as she straightens it, each careful masked attempt to hide the pain goes right out the window.
His shadows flare out across the floor in spiky, needles, his voice throaty and disembodied unintentionally when he growls out a curse, tail whipping back and forth under the stool creating a fan-type push of air against Danta’s legs. “Fucking hells.” He grits out, shutting his eyes tight, murmuring a quiet apology to the healer even if he’s being good and still as can be with his arm in her hands.
His skin begins to knit itself back together, the first wound slowly stitching back together. And maybe it’s a sign of the pain when he grips the counter til his fingertips are white, but given the fact Ancients can’t sweat from heat, condensation gathers in his temples, wicked away with the heat Danta offers through his hair, sweating solely from pain. He peels himself away just enough from the death grip to grab the brandy when offered, downing it as quickly as he can in the hopes it’ll melt the pain away.
Astaroth
what was it like to feel in love?
