// with our one foot in the grave //
Combined and connected, molded and melded, the butcher and the Maverick settle in the seconds of silence apart from panting breaths and tender touches. Conceding as Danta meets him halfway for the kiss he’s been craving, his body shivers as he presses down into it breathlessly. It does feel different this time, because before while he’d made his possessive, selfish comments in the heat of the moment, he finds zero regret when the haze of lust fades.
Mine. Mine. Mine.
It’s the mantra that burns and brands into his mind, neon lights flashing as the fire fades and the kiss turns tender, gentler, softer. There’s no thought given to the apologetic touch Danta provides, nothing more than the way he lets the fire melt, shifts a little to make sure they’re separated enough. Messes weren’t even on the forefront of his mind, given the singed and burnt state of the blankets under them. Danta absorbs every thought in his mind.
The kiss to his forehead and the hands in his hair are met with the butcher adjusting, allowing himself to be that blanket the Maverick craves. And while he doesn’t want to break the silence, Astaroth cares little about tact or prolonging this moment of silence and tender touches. Why does he need to when the sentiments remain the same? Danta is his, and he is Danta’s.
Propped up on his elbows now, he runs his hands through Danta’s blonde locks in turn, stroking along rainbow hues flickering from the fire in the fireplace. He breaks the kiss to let his honeyed gaze focus on the way the dark room and the firelight have turned Danta’s gaze into cobalt hues. “Would you like to go on a date with me?” He asks through a hoarse voice, soft like a whisper, fingertips curling in golden strands.
Mine. Mine. Mine.
It’s the mantra that burns and brands into his mind, neon lights flashing as the fire fades and the kiss turns tender, gentler, softer. There’s no thought given to the apologetic touch Danta provides, nothing more than the way he lets the fire melt, shifts a little to make sure they’re separated enough. Messes weren’t even on the forefront of his mind, given the singed and burnt state of the blankets under them. Danta absorbs every thought in his mind.
The kiss to his forehead and the hands in his hair are met with the butcher adjusting, allowing himself to be that blanket the Maverick craves. And while he doesn’t want to break the silence, Astaroth cares little about tact or prolonging this moment of silence and tender touches. Why does he need to when the sentiments remain the same? Danta is his, and he is Danta’s.
Propped up on his elbows now, he runs his hands through Danta’s blonde locks in turn, stroking along rainbow hues flickering from the fire in the fireplace. He breaks the kiss to let his honeyed gaze focus on the way the dark room and the firelight have turned Danta’s gaze into cobalt hues. “Would you like to go on a date with me?” He asks through a hoarse voice, soft like a whisper, fingertips curling in golden strands.
Astaroth
// while the other one's kicking its way right down to hell //
