Astaroth
// but if you think I'm misery,
“Oh, but of course.” Astaroth agrees, huffing a laugh as Flora suggests his floor, in which the butcher completely ignores him to beam a too sharp smile at the Queen as she plays at being surprised. He knows her well enough to know she pays attention to the subtly of things. “Flora, darling,” the deep chuckle bubbles from him before he can finish. “It would have its own space, hung and pristine.” Because he was OCD enough about it to make sure there was room for it, plenty of spaces to hang to not get wrinkled.
Letting the shop keep leave with a parting thank you, he drifts back to Flora’s side as the loud laugh leaves her and he snorts a quieter one, rolling a shoulder as if to say am I wrong? Of course, the mischief in her own gaze is met with a playful one dancing in the honey of his the entirety of the few step walk back behind the curtain.
This is where he starts to realize just how close to the line she is dancing, and him to recollect on just how long it’s been since the bloodlust. Still, it doesn’t keep him from dancing amongst the flames, not as his hands ghost along her back and laces and his accent is a touch thicker when he comments on his favorite colors. “They are indeed.” Letting the fabric drop, despite having made a comment about it not happening, the butcher doesn’t seem to mind so much as his hands continue to ghost along her skin, as his face leans in enough to her neck that his nose brushes along it in a whispered caress.
He’s even docile enough to let her guide his hand, distracted by the thrum of her heartbeat, her pristine neck, the scent of Flora Gorgeous by Gucci, the one in the tiffany blue bottle intermixed with a soft scent of salt from clinging ocean waves. Her hand covers his as it makes its path up, pausing by her nipple in a ghostly touch, before he’s cupping her jaw. She curls back against him and he braces for her, not as strong as she is but tall enough to make the difference. The butcher relishes in the touch again, her offer on the table before him and he has to remind himself it’s a gentler one — like leaving a vase of flowers as a gift rather than a full course meal to devour.
Withdrawing before he can press his lips against her pulse, he releases her jaw to let his hand travel back down her body, along the jutting of her collarbones and down to the swell of her breasts. “Alas, you do not like pain, and I have not taken care of my bloodlust in some time.” He says a touch apologetically, horned head tilting to peer at their reflection in the mirror. “Unless you had another idea, darling.”
Letting the shop keep leave with a parting thank you, he drifts back to Flora’s side as the loud laugh leaves her and he snorts a quieter one, rolling a shoulder as if to say am I wrong? Of course, the mischief in her own gaze is met with a playful one dancing in the honey of his the entirety of the few step walk back behind the curtain.
This is where he starts to realize just how close to the line she is dancing, and him to recollect on just how long it’s been since the bloodlust. Still, it doesn’t keep him from dancing amongst the flames, not as his hands ghost along her back and laces and his accent is a touch thicker when he comments on his favorite colors. “They are indeed.” Letting the fabric drop, despite having made a comment about it not happening, the butcher doesn’t seem to mind so much as his hands continue to ghost along her skin, as his face leans in enough to her neck that his nose brushes along it in a whispered caress.
He’s even docile enough to let her guide his hand, distracted by the thrum of her heartbeat, her pristine neck, the scent of Flora Gorgeous by Gucci, the one in the tiffany blue bottle intermixed with a soft scent of salt from clinging ocean waves. Her hand covers his as it makes its path up, pausing by her nipple in a ghostly touch, before he’s cupping her jaw. She curls back against him and he braces for her, not as strong as she is but tall enough to make the difference. The butcher relishes in the touch again, her offer on the table before him and he has to remind himself it’s a gentler one — like leaving a vase of flowers as a gift rather than a full course meal to devour.
Withdrawing before he can press his lips against her pulse, he releases her jaw to let his hand travel back down her body, along the jutting of her collarbones and down to the swell of her breasts. “Alas, you do not like pain, and I have not taken care of my bloodlust in some time.” He says a touch apologetically, horned head tilting to peer at their reflection in the mirror. “Unless you had another idea, darling.”
then baby, all the company,
it never leaves me alone, no //
it never leaves me alone, no //
