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
“Mm, not entirely.” The butcher says of the villi lace. A sheepish smile crosses his face as he gives her shoulders a little squeeze, because she had helped with part of the quest when he’d needed to spar someone he didn’t want to hurt with no holds barred. “It will likely make me attack whomever is closest to me, so it is a good thing that I prefer to be the center of attention, yes?” He tilts his head slightly, the horns glinting with a bit of light from a droplet that’s condensed on the dark fire obsidian of his antlers.
It drips down the length of the horn to plop easily into his dark and damp hair as he listens to her murmur, his heartbeat an easy rhythm beneath the Doubletake’s blonde curls. “You may one day.” And he hopes it is Kaisel, honestly, even if he thinks that the soldier could do with a little less of the stick up his ass. But she mentions the speed of which they got together and the butcher snorts a little, nodding his understanding. “I do not know if Danta and I would have ever figured it out if you had not blared it at us. We would likely still just be swanning about pretending to be overly protective friends." The thought is amusing now, even if back then he’d been quietly mortified to show any kind of public display of affection.
It doesn’t help that he has his distaste of being touched, lest he touches first – or you’re one of the select few, as Flora is – but then she’s nudging him and the butcher snorts and rolls his eyes with all of the dramatics of someone caught spinning himself in a web that he’s been trapped in for a while now. The answer had always been there. Though, if Danta did want space, the butcher was hopelessly in love enough to give him that. He’d grant him anything he could if it meant he could keep some of him. And he’s selfish enough to be content with it if he had to be.
But he doesn’t, because they are fine thankfully, and with his admission of having the revivify feather, perhaps it will help Danta relax even more when he goes out on his outings where he almost always seems to find trouble.
She latches onto his invitation, though, and he sinks back a bit more into the water, adjusting just so that Flora doesn’t drown with the movement. “Well, growing up the way that I did, sex was essentially the end of the line for the men of Whitebrim in my time. You could either choose to become a scout, as I did, or choose to continue the village bloodlines. If you did the latter, your purpose was fulfilled and you were devoured.” He snorts a little, as if the explanation is precisely why he’d tried to take a bite out of her the first time they delved into it. “So I did not partake until I became an Ancient and by then I tended to take after our matriarchs, I suppose. Though I imagine that the bloodlust does not help.” Tilting his head this way and that, it’s with an accompanying hum that the butcher settles with a sigh.
“It had less than ideal results. So I reverted back to how I was when I was in Whitebrim and it was the least of my worries when it came to my survival.” A brief pause as he squints down at her thoughtfully. “And it admittedly took him a lot of work to get me in a position to do it in the first place, once we had smoothed out our aggressions toward each other once he woke me.” It was not emotional, no longer survival, it's only now that the butcher can sit back and indulge in the safety of knowing he wouldn't hurt Danta too much if things got out of hand (because Danta could hold his leash and held it well) and the release of tension that's bundled up in his shoulders.
It drips down the length of the horn to plop easily into his dark and damp hair as he listens to her murmur, his heartbeat an easy rhythm beneath the Doubletake’s blonde curls. “You may one day.” And he hopes it is Kaisel, honestly, even if he thinks that the soldier could do with a little less of the stick up his ass. But she mentions the speed of which they got together and the butcher snorts a little, nodding his understanding. “I do not know if Danta and I would have ever figured it out if you had not blared it at us. We would likely still just be swanning about pretending to be overly protective friends." The thought is amusing now, even if back then he’d been quietly mortified to show any kind of public display of affection.
It doesn’t help that he has his distaste of being touched, lest he touches first – or you’re one of the select few, as Flora is – but then she’s nudging him and the butcher snorts and rolls his eyes with all of the dramatics of someone caught spinning himself in a web that he’s been trapped in for a while now. The answer had always been there. Though, if Danta did want space, the butcher was hopelessly in love enough to give him that. He’d grant him anything he could if it meant he could keep some of him. And he’s selfish enough to be content with it if he had to be.
But he doesn’t, because they are fine thankfully, and with his admission of having the revivify feather, perhaps it will help Danta relax even more when he goes out on his outings where he almost always seems to find trouble.
She latches onto his invitation, though, and he sinks back a bit more into the water, adjusting just so that Flora doesn’t drown with the movement. “Well, growing up the way that I did, sex was essentially the end of the line for the men of Whitebrim in my time. You could either choose to become a scout, as I did, or choose to continue the village bloodlines. If you did the latter, your purpose was fulfilled and you were devoured.” He snorts a little, as if the explanation is precisely why he’d tried to take a bite out of her the first time they delved into it. “So I did not partake until I became an Ancient and by then I tended to take after our matriarchs, I suppose. Though I imagine that the bloodlust does not help.” Tilting his head this way and that, it’s with an accompanying hum that the butcher settles with a sigh.
“It had less than ideal results. So I reverted back to how I was when I was in Whitebrim and it was the least of my worries when it came to my survival.” A brief pause as he squints down at her thoughtfully. “And it admittedly took him a lot of work to get me in a position to do it in the first place, once we had smoothed out our aggressions toward each other once he woke me.” It was not emotional, no longer survival, it's only now that the butcher can sit back and indulge in the safety of knowing he wouldn't hurt Danta too much if things got out of hand (because Danta could hold his leash and held it well) and the release of tension that's bundled up in his shoulders.
Astaroth
run, baby, run, run for your life
