Astaroth
// so sip the gossip, drink 'til you choke. sip the gossip, burn down your throat //
He can hear the lilt of the author’s voice alongside his fiance’s as they get closer – but it’s nothing in comparison to what he’s expecting to see when Quentin steps in. Of course, his pleasantries are on display, ever the Gentleman, after all. But the sharp twist to his smile certainly screams something more devious as the men steps in and offers a pun nonetheless. It isn’t the first time he’s heard it, nor does he expect it to be the last, and truthfully he would’ve missed it completely were it not for the extension of the ee that attributes it to his antlers, knowing fully well the author hasn’t witnessed his fierw shift.
The Butcher does not approach, however, instead he straightens out his posture a bit from where he’d been leaning against the post of the bed. “The pleasure is mine.” He says, though his tone has dropped into something a little less than impressed in a vast contradiction to Danta’s delight.
Eternally thankful for Danta’s interruption, however, Asta takes another drag from his own cigarette, exhaling the plume as his free hand winds around Danta’s middle as his hands slip down the front of his smooth waistcoat. His tail flicks intermittently, like a calculating cat as he leans in to press a chaste kiss to the crown of his head, before his attention lifts to look over at Quentin.
The cigarette perched in between the two fingers of his free hand suddenly go up in a ghoulish green flame, leaving ash behind to flat and smudge around in the process, though Asta pays it little mind as his dark gaze focuses on the author. “And perhaps find it a bit more realistic.” He tacks on, clearly still not over the whole mucus inscription.
The Butcher does not approach, however, instead he straightens out his posture a bit from where he’d been leaning against the post of the bed. “The pleasure is mine.” He says, though his tone has dropped into something a little less than impressed in a vast contradiction to Danta’s delight.
Eternally thankful for Danta’s interruption, however, Asta takes another drag from his own cigarette, exhaling the plume as his free hand winds around Danta’s middle as his hands slip down the front of his smooth waistcoat. His tail flicks intermittently, like a calculating cat as he leans in to press a chaste kiss to the crown of his head, before his attention lifts to look over at Quentin.
The cigarette perched in between the two fingers of his free hand suddenly go up in a ghoulish green flame, leaving ash behind to flat and smudge around in the process, though Asta pays it little mind as his dark gaze focuses on the author. “And perhaps find it a bit more realistic.” He tacks on, clearly still not over the whole mucus inscription.
// you're not iconic, you are just like them all. don't act like you don't know //
