// with our one foot in the grave //
Heat disperses down his bones and carves a burning path through any of the voids left in the hollows of his chest, iron filling his senses and dragging his attention into a pinpoint focus. The result? Danta’s everything. Where the butcher ends and begins, an ouroboros branded into the dark veins of Astaroth’s heart. The moan that escapes the Maverick only spurs the butcher on, lips and tongue swiping away the blood before it can clot completely.
It paints his lips in a scarlet hue, enough that it starts to drip from his lips, burying into the edge of his beard. He shifts, drawing up and away from the wound, arms planted on either side of Danta’s head, fingers plunging into blonde locks and snagging on glittering diamond horns. He hovers above his face, eyes impossibly dark now, heavily lidded as a drop of blood falls from the sharp curl of his lips, landing on the blonde’s Cupid’s bow as his fingers tighten into the other man’s hair, bolstered and uncaring of his admissions in the here and now. “You are mine.” It’s said with more oomph this time, the deeper Whitebrim accent curling over the vow. Something within him starts to both blossom and crack, fractures of bloodied light growing from the hollows of a frozen heart.
It spurs him to continue, his voice dropping further into the tones of centuries before. “And so help me gods, Dantalion, if anyone tries to take you from me—” They both know the kinds of terrible things the butcher would do to get him back. He doesn’t finish the sentiment for that reason, not as he dives in to claim a greedier kiss, spreading the iron along Danta’s own lips, sharing the blood with his kiss. Punctuating the point, his hips roll against the Maverick, pinning him hard against the soft, plush mattress.
It paints his lips in a scarlet hue, enough that it starts to drip from his lips, burying into the edge of his beard. He shifts, drawing up and away from the wound, arms planted on either side of Danta’s head, fingers plunging into blonde locks and snagging on glittering diamond horns. He hovers above his face, eyes impossibly dark now, heavily lidded as a drop of blood falls from the sharp curl of his lips, landing on the blonde’s Cupid’s bow as his fingers tighten into the other man’s hair, bolstered and uncaring of his admissions in the here and now. “You are mine.” It’s said with more oomph this time, the deeper Whitebrim accent curling over the vow. Something within him starts to both blossom and crack, fractures of bloodied light growing from the hollows of a frozen heart.
It spurs him to continue, his voice dropping further into the tones of centuries before. “And so help me gods, Dantalion, if anyone tries to take you from me—” They both know the kinds of terrible things the butcher would do to get him back. He doesn’t finish the sentiment for that reason, not as he dives in to claim a greedier kiss, spreading the iron along Danta’s own lips, sharing the blood with his kiss. Punctuating the point, his hips roll against the Maverick, pinning him hard against the soft, plush mattress.
Astaroth
// while the other one's kicking its way right down to hell //
