lord help anyone who stands in my way; for I am not merciful, and i am not kind
and i am not afraid to make you wish that i was
and i am not afraid to make you wish that i was
It is a clumsy feeling — how the words themselves feel so mundane compared to the complexity of the feelings surrounding them. And with it, the butcher finds it leaving his own lips without all of the eloquence he wishes he could add — to wax poetics surrounding the term rather than say it itself. But he’s too drunk to formulate anything, too exhausted from all of his thoughts of taking that woman apart, to actively try it.
Humming a note to say he agrees with that sentiment, though, his own eyes close and they settle there in surprising peace, the places their bodies connect does wonders for relieving the brimming tension in the butcher’s shoulders. “Then we have a deal, hm?” He says before he’s pulling back slightly to open his eyes, the honey brown made black in Danta’s shadow from the flame at his back.
But he’s told to look, and even if the jealousy roars in his stomach at the thought, the butcher indulges in the act of checking for any signs. His hands lift, sweeping back still damp blonde curls, calloused fingertips skating across pale skin, over faded bruises he knows are his own, but finding nothing red or amiss in the Maverick’s appearance. It’s like nothing had happened, and if he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, he might have been able to believe it too.
Drunk and still quite possessive, the butcher leans forward back into Danta’s space, lips pressing against his pulse there before his kisses trail down toward where his shoulder meets his neck, and he nips ever so carefully to drag a bead of blood to the surface, to redden the space and leave a tiny mark, before he’s withdrawing and slipping his hand up to cup Danta’s cheek. “Just mine.”
Humming a note to say he agrees with that sentiment, though, his own eyes close and they settle there in surprising peace, the places their bodies connect does wonders for relieving the brimming tension in the butcher’s shoulders. “Then we have a deal, hm?” He says before he’s pulling back slightly to open his eyes, the honey brown made black in Danta’s shadow from the flame at his back.
But he’s told to look, and even if the jealousy roars in his stomach at the thought, the butcher indulges in the act of checking for any signs. His hands lift, sweeping back still damp blonde curls, calloused fingertips skating across pale skin, over faded bruises he knows are his own, but finding nothing red or amiss in the Maverick’s appearance. It’s like nothing had happened, and if he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, he might have been able to believe it too.
Drunk and still quite possessive, the butcher leans forward back into Danta’s space, lips pressing against his pulse there before his kisses trail down toward where his shoulder meets his neck, and he nips ever so carefully to drag a bead of blood to the surface, to redden the space and leave a tiny mark, before he’s withdrawing and slipping his hand up to cup Danta’s cheek. “Just mine.”
Astaroth
say your prayers now
