Astaroth
// i ride the edge, my speed goes in the red //
Snorting at the explanation, Astaroth hums in thought – agreeing and finding the idea quite perfect for the Maverick to have chosen, even if it didn’t suit himself particularly well. Then again, leadership of any sort didn’t suit the butcher in the slightest, a task that has him shying away from it immediately. “It’s a perfect choice. And no, I am not jealous.” He teases back, at least until he’s maneuvering the other man into his lap, quite content and settled now as he baps around behind the other man to collect the discarded gift.
“I have.” Not strong enough, though, but he keeps those self deprecating thoughts away in lieu of the current positioning. “My fire magic is stronger now.” He flashes that same sharp toothed grin as he drops the package into the Maverick’s lap and makes his request, dark eyes watching Danta’s face as he picks it apart, making a comment of the Family and their colors, before a playful seriousness overcomes Astaroth’s face.
“Purple is not owned by anyone, regardless if someone wishes to base their presence entirely on such a mediocre color.” It isn’t that Asta thinks purple is terrible, but it certainly isn’t his color. Which is precisely why he’d picked it for the covering, knowing that Danta was the type to simply destroy the paper rather than carefully remove it.
Inside, the box is white and once it’s opened, within that box sits a golden sheer shirt – long enough to be half worn almost as if it were attempting to be a dress (had Danta been just a bit shorter, that is), but sheer enough to give a gilded appearance of the sun within the flickering flames of the fire and along the other man’s ivory skin. And all the while, Astaroth’s gaze is glued to the other man, waiting.
“I have.” Not strong enough, though, but he keeps those self deprecating thoughts away in lieu of the current positioning. “My fire magic is stronger now.” He flashes that same sharp toothed grin as he drops the package into the Maverick’s lap and makes his request, dark eyes watching Danta’s face as he picks it apart, making a comment of the Family and their colors, before a playful seriousness overcomes Astaroth’s face.
“Purple is not owned by anyone, regardless if someone wishes to base their presence entirely on such a mediocre color.” It isn’t that Asta thinks purple is terrible, but it certainly isn’t his color. Which is precisely why he’d picked it for the covering, knowing that Danta was the type to simply destroy the paper rather than carefully remove it.
Inside, the box is white and once it’s opened, within that box sits a golden sheer shirt – long enough to be half worn almost as if it were attempting to be a dress (had Danta been just a bit shorter, that is), but sheer enough to give a gilded appearance of the sun within the flickering flames of the fire and along the other man’s ivory skin. And all the while, Astaroth’s gaze is glued to the other man, waiting.
// hot blood, these veins, my pleasure is their pain //
