you were destined for the glory, the honor and the fame
i was destined for the bullet, to be the gun with no name
i was destined for the bullet, to be the gun with no name
The amount of time Astaroth has spent in the past punishing Danta for varying things was large, whether or not the Maverick truly deserved it. Back then, though, he had felt it warranted. Had gone all out in some instances. Had broken a few well loved canes in the process. But now, all those scars he’d left he can reverently drag his fingers along, press his lips to, in far too belated apologies for having placed them in the first place.
So no, he doesn’t answer Danta’s question, even without the prompting not to, in favor of hearing the saddened echo greet him.
He sees the trail of red that flutters through his cheeks and ears, hot against his hand, and it takes everything in him to keep the smile from widening on his lips. “I suppose it will have to be me, won’t it?” It’s his error to atone for, after all. And as such, the butcher — still mindful of preventing himself from sinking his teeth into Danta, figures he can alleviate some of the distraction between them. Propped up on the arm that has his fingertips threaded through blonde hair, his other hand slips down between them, dragging his fingers slowly across his stomach and lower, adjusting himself ever so slightly to ensure he has ample room. And without so much of a warning, the butcher leans in for another kiss at exactly the time he strokes his fingers along Danta’s length, trying to burn away any reservations.
Now, the butcher may not partake this time, but he doesn’t mind. Whether interested or not, he prefers to indulge and worship the Maverick in whichever way he sees fit.
So no, he doesn’t answer Danta’s question, even without the prompting not to, in favor of hearing the saddened echo greet him.
He sees the trail of red that flutters through his cheeks and ears, hot against his hand, and it takes everything in him to keep the smile from widening on his lips. “I suppose it will have to be me, won’t it?” It’s his error to atone for, after all. And as such, the butcher — still mindful of preventing himself from sinking his teeth into Danta, figures he can alleviate some of the distraction between them. Propped up on the arm that has his fingertips threaded through blonde hair, his other hand slips down between them, dragging his fingers slowly across his stomach and lower, adjusting himself ever so slightly to ensure he has ample room. And without so much of a warning, the butcher leans in for another kiss at exactly the time he strokes his fingers along Danta’s length, trying to burn away any reservations.
Now, the butcher may not partake this time, but he doesn’t mind. Whether interested or not, he prefers to indulge and worship the Maverick in whichever way he sees fit.
Astaroth
fate's been playing the long game on us, sweetheart
