mississippi boys, inner city boys

you were destined for the glory, the honor and the fame
i was destined for the bullet, to be the gun with no name

“An entire fountain for liquor?” Astaroth starts to say, as if dumbfounded by the idea, barking a laugh that echoes off the stalls they pass. Of course, once Danta finds something, he pauses so that the blonde can snag the bottle, still trying to wrap his mind around such a thing. Rum doesn’t sound terrible, though, and he listens to the bottle uncork as he starts the trek again toward the Inn, only pausing again in his attempts to take a taste of the bottle, careful to try and maneuver in such a way that the Maverick doesn’t impale himself.

It burns down his throat but he sighs contently, nodding a little as his own hair bounces with a renewed fluffiness that he typically doesn’t keep with his preference for it being combed back and out of the way. But between the humidity and the air drying, well, it’s soft and absolutely getting in the way.

“This is perfect.” Not too heavy, like he’d be anticipating when it came to drinking whiskey. “I already get my alcohol for free.” He drawls with another soft laugh, pausing to open the door to the Inn and ducking so Danta doesn’t get decapitated upon entering. “Besides, the rage room is more my style. And given my affinity of getting hurt, perhaps healing would do more for me than liquor I already have access to.” His accented tone drops in a low and playful hum.

Astaroth

fate's been playing the long game on us, sweetheart