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 was a terrible idea once upon a time, usually for those that had something to fear. But with Danta, his odds were quite good — given how many deals the butcher has made with the Maverick that the blonde has survived through. So it’s with a soft snort as he makes his inspection, selfishly relishing the feel of Danta smoothing out his loose hair, the butcher finally starts to relax as he trails his lips across his skin. “You have survived thus far.” He drawls before he’s nipping his neck, drawing a small amount of blood and heat to bloom to the surface.
His other hand smooths along his back, tugging at the dark red shirt to keep it fallen off his shoulder while the other cups his cheek upon his withdrawal, flashing a small yet sharp smile toward the Maverick. There’s underlying meanings to the words Danta confirms, but the butcher is too drunk to pick them out. So at least he’s satisfied with that answer, even more so when the Theocrat leans in to steal a kiss from his lips.
And he indulges wholeheartedly, as if the iron on his tongue could melt away any lingering thoughts or taste of anyone else before him. To punctuate the point, the butcher slices his tongue on one of those sharp incisors of his, pooling the blood onto his tongue to press into the kiss for the Maverick, ensuring that there’s nothing but the scent of iron, smoke, and whiskey to drown out everything else.
His hand around Danta’s middle tightens, tail sweeping up to curl contently between his shoulders, relishing in each and every second of this prolonged kiss, wanting to go until his lungs ache.
His other hand smooths along his back, tugging at the dark red shirt to keep it fallen off his shoulder while the other cups his cheek upon his withdrawal, flashing a small yet sharp smile toward the Maverick. There’s underlying meanings to the words Danta confirms, but the butcher is too drunk to pick them out. So at least he’s satisfied with that answer, even more so when the Theocrat leans in to steal a kiss from his lips.
And he indulges wholeheartedly, as if the iron on his tongue could melt away any lingering thoughts or taste of anyone else before him. To punctuate the point, the butcher slices his tongue on one of those sharp incisors of his, pooling the blood onto his tongue to press into the kiss for the Maverick, ensuring that there’s nothing but the scent of iron, smoke, and whiskey to drown out everything else.
His hand around Danta’s middle tightens, tail sweeping up to curl contently between his shoulders, relishing in each and every second of this prolonged kiss, wanting to go until his lungs ache.
Astaroth
say your prayers now
