// with our one foot in the grave //
Danta’s voice is soft enough that the blood in his ears make it all but impossible to hear his name. It allows him the moment of seeking out the heat of the fireplace, so as to not become that cage that the Maverick has immediately retreated against. And all the while the only thoughts in his head are closing off, shutting doors that seem to be opening, closing himself off from warmth and hope that had always been such a fleeting prospect in his life that he realizes he should have left it lie.
That is, until he’s made his vow, blanketed his skin in fire, only to find the press of the blonde at his back. His hand curls into a slight fist, unsure what the point of this contact is, if not to try and soothe or backtrack. None of it comes, though, instead a secret and silent admission hidden from the Butcher’s sight — but he doesn’t need to see it to realize he had not misread the situation or heard.
Just that it’s a concept neither of them know or really understand, summed up quite succinctly with the this that falls from the Theocrat’s perfect lips.
The hardened, closed off walls remain, but there’s a crack of acceptance through it as the fire that coats his chest is soon guided to let a wisp of it curl against the blonde’s cheek, opposite of the one pressed into his scarred, bruised back. His own tail uncurls from his leg and is replaced by Danta’s own while his snakes around the other man’s leg, like a silent vow or handshake meant to either answer that he’d keep his horrific proclivities to outside of the Inner Quarter or that he’s agreeing to whatever this is.
“You have my word.” He vows, ignoring the obvious earlier whisper because fuck, he doesn’t want the other man to recoil as hard as he just has moments before. “It will be bloody and vicious, though I imagine you already knew that.” Comes that deep Whitebrim accented drawl, partially numbed and unfeeling, even as he gives in and tilts his head back with a slow inhale just enough that the dark finger combed locks brush against diamond horns and the fire he’s manipulating curve up Danta’s jaw in a violent caress.
That is, until he’s made his vow, blanketed his skin in fire, only to find the press of the blonde at his back. His hand curls into a slight fist, unsure what the point of this contact is, if not to try and soothe or backtrack. None of it comes, though, instead a secret and silent admission hidden from the Butcher’s sight — but he doesn’t need to see it to realize he had not misread the situation or heard.
Just that it’s a concept neither of them know or really understand, summed up quite succinctly with the this that falls from the Theocrat’s perfect lips.
The hardened, closed off walls remain, but there’s a crack of acceptance through it as the fire that coats his chest is soon guided to let a wisp of it curl against the blonde’s cheek, opposite of the one pressed into his scarred, bruised back. His own tail uncurls from his leg and is replaced by Danta’s own while his snakes around the other man’s leg, like a silent vow or handshake meant to either answer that he’d keep his horrific proclivities to outside of the Inner Quarter or that he’s agreeing to whatever this is.
“You have my word.” He vows, ignoring the obvious earlier whisper because fuck, he doesn’t want the other man to recoil as hard as he just has moments before. “It will be bloody and vicious, though I imagine you already knew that.” Comes that deep Whitebrim accented drawl, partially numbed and unfeeling, even as he gives in and tilts his head back with a slow inhale just enough that the dark finger combed locks brush against diamond horns and the fire he’s manipulating curve up Danta’s jaw in a violent caress.
Astaroth
// while the other one's kicking its way right down to hell //
