am i the wolf or the savior?
is my smile too sharp or just my teeth?
is my smile too sharp or just my teeth?
The smack to his and the cowbell comment are answered by the very dramatic eye roll as he stalks over to the, settling into the seat in front of it, taking a good look at himself for a few long moments without his horns, looking for all the world, mundane and dull while Danta retrieved the scissors and comb. He watches him in the reflection of the mirror upon his approach, a soft smile blooming on his face as he feels and sees the gentle press of kisses. “Neither do I, darling. Yet I enjoy treating you.” Comes his honest answer.
And for all the golden threads Danta has blossomed in the shadowed veins of the butcher’s heart, wild and untamed, they suddenly start to freeze awkwardly in place when the request is made. Luckily for the Theocrat, the smile on Asta’s face remains small and soft as before, if not contemplative. Even if internally, there’s a moment of deep seated realizations.
He can handle it. (Maybe). He can certainly try. And he should, because if he had to go for so long in between letting his most inherent shift out into the open now and then, he’d probably lose his mind. And for it, the butcher feels selfish — because at least when they hadn’t shared a room, he’d been able to become one of those gore crows and enjoy Moira’s company.
Yet another being he hasn’t seen in a while, all for his comfort.
The only thing that betrays his answer and the casualness of how he’s settled, is the way he swallows before he nods. “Of course, darling.” The agreement is easy, especially with the awkward feeling of sorrow that burrows in amongst the gilded strings. He has plenty of time to prepare, doesn’t he? “Perhaps Moira should come as well?” He suggests, shifting to straighten up in the chair a touch, pulling his mahogany gaze back toward himself before he runs a hand through it, debating. “Would you prefer horns or no horns?” He asks gently, flitting his gaze back toward the Maverick’s reflection.
And for all the golden threads Danta has blossomed in the shadowed veins of the butcher’s heart, wild and untamed, they suddenly start to freeze awkwardly in place when the request is made. Luckily for the Theocrat, the smile on Asta’s face remains small and soft as before, if not contemplative. Even if internally, there’s a moment of deep seated realizations.
He can handle it. (Maybe). He can certainly try. And he should, because if he had to go for so long in between letting his most inherent shift out into the open now and then, he’d probably lose his mind. And for it, the butcher feels selfish — because at least when they hadn’t shared a room, he’d been able to become one of those gore crows and enjoy Moira’s company.
Yet another being he hasn’t seen in a while, all for his comfort.
The only thing that betrays his answer and the casualness of how he’s settled, is the way he swallows before he nods. “Of course, darling.” The agreement is easy, especially with the awkward feeling of sorrow that burrows in amongst the gilded strings. He has plenty of time to prepare, doesn’t he? “Perhaps Moira should come as well?” He suggests, shifting to straighten up in the chair a touch, pulling his mahogany gaze back toward himself before he runs a hand through it, debating. “Would you prefer horns or no horns?” He asks gently, flitting his gaze back toward the Maverick’s reflection.
Astaroth
come a little closer
