run, baby, run, run for your life
i'ma tear out your heart, it'll always be mine
i'ma tear out your heart, it'll always be mine
A noncommittal hum is offered to Danta as the butcher departs, listening to the further conversation even as he starts to settle. The den is comfortable, and it does wonders to soothe him further, embracing the warmth as he sheds the fine clothes and smooths out the burnt collar of his shirt that looks almost as if one had flicked the still hot ashes of cigarettes onto it.
He’s managed to finally get his shoulders to relax by the time Danta’s slipping into their den and he listens to the padding of the Flood’s footsteps and the quieter uncorking of a bottle that sounds suspiciously like his favorite Halovian whiskey, before distraction comes in the warmth that’s shed from Danta’s chest as it presses against his back. The whisper has a soft sigh passing by his lips, cheeks almost aching from the force of the smile he’d plastered to his face earlier – gone for the moment. “I love you more.” He retorts in a whisper of his own, feeling the Maverick slip away at precisely the time he can finish shedding his clothes to curl up in the sheets along with him – possessive in how he winds his arms around Danta’s middle and tangles his legs with the blonde and essentially curls in enough to be a large spoon that smells like smoke and the faintest touch of iron and whiskey on his breath.
It's here that he nuzzles into the blonde’s neck and ear with a soft whisper of “I cannot wait for the stag in the morning.” It’s a playful reminder now that he’s relaxed fully with the demigod on the couch in front of the simmering flames and with his lover perfectly and precisely in his arms. As such, he doesn’t mind when he realizes it’s likely for the best of everyone’s sakes that he withdraw just enough to get the muzzle into place just in case.
And it does take him some time before he falls asleep, but when he does? He’s out, as if the night’s adventure has overwhelmingly exhausted him beyond even the threat of nightmares.
He’s managed to finally get his shoulders to relax by the time Danta’s slipping into their den and he listens to the padding of the Flood’s footsteps and the quieter uncorking of a bottle that sounds suspiciously like his favorite Halovian whiskey, before distraction comes in the warmth that’s shed from Danta’s chest as it presses against his back. The whisper has a soft sigh passing by his lips, cheeks almost aching from the force of the smile he’d plastered to his face earlier – gone for the moment. “I love you more.” He retorts in a whisper of his own, feeling the Maverick slip away at precisely the time he can finish shedding his clothes to curl up in the sheets along with him – possessive in how he winds his arms around Danta’s middle and tangles his legs with the blonde and essentially curls in enough to be a large spoon that smells like smoke and the faintest touch of iron and whiskey on his breath.
It's here that he nuzzles into the blonde’s neck and ear with a soft whisper of “I cannot wait for the stag in the morning.” It’s a playful reminder now that he’s relaxed fully with the demigod on the couch in front of the simmering flames and with his lover perfectly and precisely in his arms. As such, he doesn’t mind when he realizes it’s likely for the best of everyone’s sakes that he withdraw just enough to get the muzzle into place just in case.
And it does take him some time before he falls asleep, but when he does? He’s out, as if the night’s adventure has overwhelmingly exhausted him beyond even the threat of nightmares.
Astaroth
run, baby, run, run for your life
