Astaroth
// so sip the gossip, drink 'til you choke. sip the gossip, burn down your throat //
His name from her lips has always been a beautiful thing to hear, but to witness it from her lips, the possessiveness within it as the butcher begins to settle before her, he notices the way she shakes her head and it has him drawing back up, posture perfect and at the ready for whatever it is she requires of him. He’d already committed himself to doing anything for her, but in her presence, the butcher is even more confident in his choice.
Her smile is one that mirrors his, not even vanishing for a second as her dark tipped fingers cup his cheek. It’s the perfect mixture of chaos that thrums in his blood, that calls to her, that he can feel pulling him closer to her. He doesn’t interrupt her, even if his immediate thoughts are akin to the always, anything for you, choosing the polite means of listening as she elaborates because goddess or not, the butcher knows better than to agree without hearing the terms. Even if everything in his body tries to say otherwise.
“Yes.” He agrees by the strangeness of the Peepholes, his dark gaze like warm fire as he watches her cloak shift slightly, the heavy stone falling away to reveal the blood red rubies within. His attention shifts back up to hear that the complications may require a butcher, and what is he if not the one most notably known. It fills his ego, and the bright grin that she cups in her hand shifts toward something eager, vibrant, confident. “Of course. Am I correct in assuming that in exchange I will become completely yours?” Of higher elevation, chosen in more ways than just the renewed life she’d granted him centuries ago, just like how Flora had been chosen.
The answer, obviously, is yes. He’d do anything for Dygra, but the butcher and deal maker in him can’t help but to ask and confirm what he assumes he'll get in return.
Her smile is one that mirrors his, not even vanishing for a second as her dark tipped fingers cup his cheek. It’s the perfect mixture of chaos that thrums in his blood, that calls to her, that he can feel pulling him closer to her. He doesn’t interrupt her, even if his immediate thoughts are akin to the always, anything for you, choosing the polite means of listening as she elaborates because goddess or not, the butcher knows better than to agree without hearing the terms. Even if everything in his body tries to say otherwise.
“Yes.” He agrees by the strangeness of the Peepholes, his dark gaze like warm fire as he watches her cloak shift slightly, the heavy stone falling away to reveal the blood red rubies within. His attention shifts back up to hear that the complications may require a butcher, and what is he if not the one most notably known. It fills his ego, and the bright grin that she cups in her hand shifts toward something eager, vibrant, confident. “Of course. Am I correct in assuming that in exchange I will become completely yours?” Of higher elevation, chosen in more ways than just the renewed life she’d granted him centuries ago, just like how Flora had been chosen.
The answer, obviously, is yes. He’d do anything for Dygra, but the butcher and deal maker in him can’t help but to ask and confirm what he assumes he'll get in return.
// you're not iconic, you are just like them all. don't act like you don't know //
