i'm the escape to something that's worse
i am the shadow driving the hearse
i am the shadow driving the hearse
Bolstered by the whiplash and the slight hysteria, the butcher guides the Maverick over toward the little den where he can unroll the butcher’s roll to reveal the specific feather in question. Still sore and stiff, complete with a black eye but clean at the very least, he tucks it back away in the leather to look back over at Danta with the laughter that spills from his lips – an overwhelming sense of emotions that are likely battling within him.
“Yes,” he pauses, cut off by the way Danta reaches back for him and drapes himself against him – his good arm coming up to wrap around the blonde Ancient to keep him close despite how the bruises scream under the pressure. His head tilts slightly into against his cheek in the momentary hold they have, closing his eyes and letting his prior panic finally start to slip away. In hindsight, he should have told him sooner about it but having forgotten and let it slip from his mind, it’s no surprise it had just become part of his wardrobe on his outings and nothing worth mentioning.
His good hand lifts up, stroking through blonde strands until his fingers drop at Danta’s neck, stroking a gentle massaging pattern against any tense muscles found from the stress of the previous day. “I should have said earlier.” He hums softly, soaking in the moment despite the pain. “You could not get rid of me that easily, darling.” It feels somewhat safe to joke about now, with the figurative undo-button in his butcher knife roll.
“Yes,” he pauses, cut off by the way Danta reaches back for him and drapes himself against him – his good arm coming up to wrap around the blonde Ancient to keep him close despite how the bruises scream under the pressure. His head tilts slightly into against his cheek in the momentary hold they have, closing his eyes and letting his prior panic finally start to slip away. In hindsight, he should have told him sooner about it but having forgotten and let it slip from his mind, it’s no surprise it had just become part of his wardrobe on his outings and nothing worth mentioning.
His good hand lifts up, stroking through blonde strands until his fingers drop at Danta’s neck, stroking a gentle massaging pattern against any tense muscles found from the stress of the previous day. “I should have said earlier.” He hums softly, soaking in the moment despite the pain. “You could not get rid of me that easily, darling.” It feels somewhat safe to joke about now, with the figurative undo-button in his butcher knife roll.
Astaroth
what was it like to feel in love?
