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

“Mhm,” the butcher encourages, keeping that bright and sharp grin pointed directly at the Maverick, eating up every offered word of just what Danta enjoyed regarding the butcher. He makes a mental count, checking them off as the ones he does know full and well are aired, even if his nose wrinkles slightly to hear the mundane placed beneath the excitement of being covered in blood or burying his teeth into the Maverick, something that Danta has made somewhat clear he may not do again.

But that just proves he could get away with it again if he just so wanted to, if it was one of Danta’s favorite things, right?

He’s very content here as well, honestly, with the warm hands of the Maverick tracing the lines of his scars, ones that are ridged and hard beneath the soft smoothing fingertips. His hand drops from propping his head up to trace his own fingertips along the jut of Danta’s collarbone, up along the other Ancient’s neck, trailing along his jaw as he decides his next set of words. “Dressed impeccably like I typically am, or in your favored Dusklight uniform? Because the latter certainly attracts more attention and there are far more people I must fend off. Need I remind you of the woman the very first day I wore it?” Raising his brow to Danta, the butcher’s head tilts, enough that his soft hair sways and brushes over Danta’s chest.

Astaroth

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