And they lived comfortably ever after, boob in hand
"No need, no need." Quentin waves away the apology with all the fierceness of someone attempting to cleanse their house. It's a returned favor of manners, as timeless as any routine swordplay coreography, whereupon insisting and denying are just the assault and defense of civility. It's also entirely because guilt is a known slugger for erections, and Quentin would hate for Dantalion to be soft over the timing of their play date.
"Mm, yes, it has been a bit nipply." The musing comes as if he hasn't considered the chill until now, Deepfrost already seeming like such an endless thing that he doesn't recount the demise of it until he's finally worked up a fine enough sweat walking down the street. Rest assured, he's sweat plenty indoors, including here several times. The cowbell shortens his stride a touch, slowing to cock an ear at the sound of it as though he might fathom its purpose like some sexual deviant of Daredevil. Unwilling to stray far from Danta's side however, his curiosity will have to sustain itself on fantasy for now.
"It is," comes the demure agreement to waiting, and Quentin nods as though they've traded some scholarly breakthrough. "Although, everyone is always saying so much, it doesn't seem worth listening to half of it." In other words, early bird gets the worm seems to counteract the waiting for good things, and Quentin rather subscribes to the former most often.
With his pewter sweatervest pulled over a pale shirt and tucked in tie, dark and casual slacks and dull loafers, Quentin's appearance is one of someone far too uptight and put together to be at all comfortable here. His expression undermines his attire, worn with the easy confidence of someone facing the familiar, even beneath a warning. If anything, the risk seems to delight the man further, his lazy excitement sparking a degree brighter in the gaze he levels on Danta. Said fingers, which are liable to be in danger, drum against the bound notebook clutched between both hands and held firmly to his chest. "Delightful," he chirps around his growing smile, and it seems he means it. "Trust I intend only to watch, and to write."
Eager to see this rough and tumble fiancé of the Maverick after all the hype surrounding him, Quentin goes on tiptoe to peer in around Danta as the door opens. Antlers are the first glimpse he catches, and soon thereafter as they step inside and the door seals behind them, Quentin is revealed the entire length of Astaroth. Well, perhaps not his entire length just yet, but certainly head (a version of one) to toe. His grin only widens, mouth popping open with the greed of inspiration. "Oh, why thank you, so kind," he murmurs gratefully in response to the greeting, swiftly claiming the offered darling for himself.
"Pleasure to meet you, my deear." He does not discourage a man who takes to pet names so swiftly as Astaroth, although he is always surprised to find how tender the tall ones can be. He moves to hold out his hand, but then seems to think better of it, not quite certain when the no-touching started, and instead awkwardly shuffles his notebook from one palm to another.
"Mm, yes, it has been a bit nipply." The musing comes as if he hasn't considered the chill until now, Deepfrost already seeming like such an endless thing that he doesn't recount the demise of it until he's finally worked up a fine enough sweat walking down the street. Rest assured, he's sweat plenty indoors, including here several times. The cowbell shortens his stride a touch, slowing to cock an ear at the sound of it as though he might fathom its purpose like some sexual deviant of Daredevil. Unwilling to stray far from Danta's side however, his curiosity will have to sustain itself on fantasy for now.
"It is," comes the demure agreement to waiting, and Quentin nods as though they've traded some scholarly breakthrough. "Although, everyone is always saying so much, it doesn't seem worth listening to half of it." In other words, early bird gets the worm seems to counteract the waiting for good things, and Quentin rather subscribes to the former most often.
With his pewter sweatervest pulled over a pale shirt and tucked in tie, dark and casual slacks and dull loafers, Quentin's appearance is one of someone far too uptight and put together to be at all comfortable here. His expression undermines his attire, worn with the easy confidence of someone facing the familiar, even beneath a warning. If anything, the risk seems to delight the man further, his lazy excitement sparking a degree brighter in the gaze he levels on Danta. Said fingers, which are liable to be in danger, drum against the bound notebook clutched between both hands and held firmly to his chest. "Delightful," he chirps around his growing smile, and it seems he means it. "Trust I intend only to watch, and to write."
Eager to see this rough and tumble fiancé of the Maverick after all the hype surrounding him, Quentin goes on tiptoe to peer in around Danta as the door opens. Antlers are the first glimpse he catches, and soon thereafter as they step inside and the door seals behind them, Quentin is revealed the entire length of Astaroth. Well, perhaps not his entire length just yet, but certainly head (a version of one) to toe. His grin only widens, mouth popping open with the greed of inspiration. "Oh, why thank you, so kind," he murmurs gratefully in response to the greeting, swiftly claiming the offered darling for himself.
"Pleasure to meet you, my deear." He does not discourage a man who takes to pet names so swiftly as Astaroth, although he is always surprised to find how tender the tall ones can be. He moves to hold out his hand, but then seems to think better of it, not quite certain when the no-touching started, and instead awkwardly shuffles his notebook from one palm to another.
Quentin
