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
The warm laugh burns from the butcher’s throat as she nudges his ribs and offers her scandalized response, a twitch of amusement blooming on his face as he sighs equally as dramatic – though less of the scandal. “I have ways of preventing something awful from occurring.” The butcher informs her a touch flippantly, as though it had been the same answer he’d given Danta when mentioning the revivify feather. That if things went so poorly south that he did succumb to Mort’s Halls that there would be a way to get him back.
It's cocky and arrogant, but it wouldn’t be the butcher without it.
He doesn’t take note of the way she wars with herself to run her fingers through his dark, soft, and wet strands – instead ignoring the droplets as they patter to his scalp and get lost in the black strands as she beams up at him. “Mm, indeed. I do adore that machine still.” He drawls with all the wonder of an old man appreciating a 4K TV.
But then he drops into the history lesson of his upbringing – something that likely makes far more sense for her now, knowing where he’d come from. The times he’d told her that things were different for him, the way he’d tried to avoid it until he could no longer and he’d gone too far that she’d dropped a tide jaguar on his lap. Her reaction is similar to Danta’s – even if the answer had been more stressed trying to explain to the Maverick that he wasn’t interested in the courtesans that had constantly been sent to his door.
At least, unless Danta wanted one of them to disappear. Which he hadn’t, and with that understanding out of the way, before they’d gotten together and fooled around, the late night knocking of his door had stopped.
His horned head tilts, sending more droplets spiraling into his hair as he peers down at her, tail weaving through the bubbles of the hot tub as he indulges in the warmth and healing nature, the bruising to his side getting better with each passing moment. His dark gaze takes her in, one still surrounded by the sea of bruising as she lets her curiosity win. “It is.” Different, that is. He doesn’t have to worry about taking too big of a chunk out of the Maverick because he knows that Danta won’t let him. The most he gets is the bite and for that, the butcher has found it to be enough.
Not that he could bite anyone intentionally without the danger of hurting them anyway, thanks to the razor sharp teeth in his head. So he shoots her a small smirk, one as his voice drops to be shared only between them. “It is so different, in fact, that I am intending on asking him to marry me one day.” It’s a conspirator’s whisper, one he’d thought of off and on with the memory of a conversation with Danta about how he wouldn’t hate such an ordeal. Though, perhaps allowing the ceremony to be private while the after party a blow out, the butcher hasn’t thought that far ahead.
He has, however, designed a ring that’s currently being made.
It's cocky and arrogant, but it wouldn’t be the butcher without it.
He doesn’t take note of the way she wars with herself to run her fingers through his dark, soft, and wet strands – instead ignoring the droplets as they patter to his scalp and get lost in the black strands as she beams up at him. “Mm, indeed. I do adore that machine still.” He drawls with all the wonder of an old man appreciating a 4K TV.
But then he drops into the history lesson of his upbringing – something that likely makes far more sense for her now, knowing where he’d come from. The times he’d told her that things were different for him, the way he’d tried to avoid it until he could no longer and he’d gone too far that she’d dropped a tide jaguar on his lap. Her reaction is similar to Danta’s – even if the answer had been more stressed trying to explain to the Maverick that he wasn’t interested in the courtesans that had constantly been sent to his door.
At least, unless Danta wanted one of them to disappear. Which he hadn’t, and with that understanding out of the way, before they’d gotten together and fooled around, the late night knocking of his door had stopped.
His horned head tilts, sending more droplets spiraling into his hair as he peers down at her, tail weaving through the bubbles of the hot tub as he indulges in the warmth and healing nature, the bruising to his side getting better with each passing moment. His dark gaze takes her in, one still surrounded by the sea of bruising as she lets her curiosity win. “It is.” Different, that is. He doesn’t have to worry about taking too big of a chunk out of the Maverick because he knows that Danta won’t let him. The most he gets is the bite and for that, the butcher has found it to be enough.
Not that he could bite anyone intentionally without the danger of hurting them anyway, thanks to the razor sharp teeth in his head. So he shoots her a small smirk, one as his voice drops to be shared only between them. “It is so different, in fact, that I am intending on asking him to marry me one day.” It’s a conspirator’s whisper, one he’d thought of off and on with the memory of a conversation with Danta about how he wouldn’t hate such an ordeal. Though, perhaps allowing the ceremony to be private while the after party a blow out, the butcher hasn’t thought that far ahead.
He has, however, designed a ring that’s currently being made.
Astaroth
run, baby, run, run for your life
