i'm the escape to something that's worse
i am the shadow driving the hearse
i am the shadow driving the hearse
He’s out quickly, beyond the point of immediate return. Lost to the sound of whatever chaos Danta indulges in while he slumbers in his drugged sleep. The shattering of glass and whatever else has been destroyed by burning or pure physical rage is unknown – perhaps for the better. Instead, he wakes to the sound of the sweeping broom – to the scent of dark spiced tea, sweet enough that it can wake the dead with a toothache.
But the second thing the butcher realizes is that his head fucking hurts. The blanket is soft, his face throbbing and aching where he blinks and comes to, sucking in a shuddering breath that borders on the edge of a quiet groan – pulling himself up and letting the blanket fall to realize he’s bandaged up and clean.
Cradling his head in his good hand, he breathes through his nose in short bursts to rouse himself more awake; at least enough that he can take a sip of the hot tea and down the painkillers he very desperately needs, even if the fact he has to hold his breath for a second sends his head into overdrive of pain.
Slowly, he gets dressed, pulling himself together stiffly before he emerges from the little makeshift den, searching for his lover from a gaze darkened by the purple of a black eye. “Darling?” He asks through a hoarse voice, finally spotting him with a bandage on his hand and a broom, cleaning up something that had shattered.
But the second thing the butcher realizes is that his head fucking hurts. The blanket is soft, his face throbbing and aching where he blinks and comes to, sucking in a shuddering breath that borders on the edge of a quiet groan – pulling himself up and letting the blanket fall to realize he’s bandaged up and clean.
Cradling his head in his good hand, he breathes through his nose in short bursts to rouse himself more awake; at least enough that he can take a sip of the hot tea and down the painkillers he very desperately needs, even if the fact he has to hold his breath for a second sends his head into overdrive of pain.
Slowly, he gets dressed, pulling himself together stiffly before he emerges from the little makeshift den, searching for his lover from a gaze darkened by the purple of a black eye. “Darling?” He asks through a hoarse voice, finally spotting him with a bandage on his hand and a broom, cleaning up something that had shattered.
Astaroth
what was it like to feel in love?
