i'm the escape to something that's worse
i am the shadow driving the hearse
i am the shadow driving the hearse
It’s a good thing Danta does take the empty glass, because if he held onto it for any longer, his grip would have shattered it anyway – and they both know that the healer doesn’t need more things to fix. His focus is so intensely on the knitting of his flesh, the sensation of it pieces itself back together again and aching in the process.
Because healing like this didn’t quite take away the sting, it took away the danger. And while it was sharper and deeper than the rest of the faded pale lines along the very same arm from the very same actions, the pain of these ones would linger for days. It fills him with a hollow ache, his jaw throbbing from how tight he clenches his jaw against the pain – the way he hangs his head despite the burning in his throat from the liquor and perhaps a touch of fire that licks from the back of his mouth.
He swallows it down, head hanging until he can feel his chin against his chest with absolutely zero hope that his hair will stay tucked behind the horns, falling into his face as his shadows thrum beneath them in the rapid pace of his heartbeat, shuddering and quaking. He’s pale as he lets Danta thank the healer, unsure if he can focus enough to speak, but at least his arm doesn’t hurt from the pain of the skin stretching and pulling against the wound. It’s more of a bone kind of exhaustion.
Only once the healer leaves does the butcher’s head tilt up slightly, eyes still shut like he’s in prayer, only managing to offer a soft little “nngh, I hope” so, on his smokey, liquored exhale.
Because healing like this didn’t quite take away the sting, it took away the danger. And while it was sharper and deeper than the rest of the faded pale lines along the very same arm from the very same actions, the pain of these ones would linger for days. It fills him with a hollow ache, his jaw throbbing from how tight he clenches his jaw against the pain – the way he hangs his head despite the burning in his throat from the liquor and perhaps a touch of fire that licks from the back of his mouth.
He swallows it down, head hanging until he can feel his chin against his chest with absolutely zero hope that his hair will stay tucked behind the horns, falling into his face as his shadows thrum beneath them in the rapid pace of his heartbeat, shuddering and quaking. He’s pale as he lets Danta thank the healer, unsure if he can focus enough to speak, but at least his arm doesn’t hurt from the pain of the skin stretching and pulling against the wound. It’s more of a bone kind of exhaustion.
Only once the healer leaves does the butcher’s head tilt up slightly, eyes still shut like he’s in prayer, only managing to offer a soft little “nngh, I hope” so, on his smokey, liquored exhale.
Astaroth
what was it like to feel in love?
