Astaroth
// so sip the gossip, drink 'til you choke. sip the gossip, burn down your throat //
He sighs, because it’s better than answering with yes but if it is not at least somewhat realistic, then it draws the reader out, because it feels like a moot point. And honestly, he isn’t going to complain as the Maverick drapes himself against him, even as his attention flicks toward Quentin to hear the scene. Feral with lust was certainly something he could do – it was something they often did, actually.
His lips part to ask what exactly a werefiend was, when he draws quiet at the explanation – power and growling, though it didn’t quite explain much else. And for, perhaps, one of the first times since his ascension to demigodhood does the Butcher quietly miss his fyrhund shift. That seemed more aligned with what Quentin was after, anyway.
His dark gaze flits down toward Danta, lips quirking up in soft amusement, a low huff of a laugh leaving him in spite of himself. “I will do anything to drown out that cowbell, darling.” He purrs, low enough for Danta to hear and maybe Quentin if he strained.
His attention flits up to the author again, however, his sharp teeth curving in that mischievous smile again. “I did not, however it is not.. not fitting for the bedroom, I suppose.” He hums, hearing and feeling the plink of the button that goes careening off in a random direction. It is sacrilege, because he finds he cant answer anymore question for the author as he instead turns his attention entirely on the Maverick.
“You are a divine nightmare.” The Butcher, remembering himself, lets his tone drip into a growl, one hand sweeping around Danta to his lower back, tugging him close while the other lifts to snatch his jaw, angling them for a chaste kiss. It doesn’t last long, because it’s his turn to reveal his little show of force, twisting them with his body to press Danta back against the bed post.
His lips part to ask what exactly a werefiend was, when he draws quiet at the explanation – power and growling, though it didn’t quite explain much else. And for, perhaps, one of the first times since his ascension to demigodhood does the Butcher quietly miss his fyrhund shift. That seemed more aligned with what Quentin was after, anyway.
His dark gaze flits down toward Danta, lips quirking up in soft amusement, a low huff of a laugh leaving him in spite of himself. “I will do anything to drown out that cowbell, darling.” He purrs, low enough for Danta to hear and maybe Quentin if he strained.
His attention flits up to the author again, however, his sharp teeth curving in that mischievous smile again. “I did not, however it is not.. not fitting for the bedroom, I suppose.” He hums, hearing and feeling the plink of the button that goes careening off in a random direction. It is sacrilege, because he finds he cant answer anymore question for the author as he instead turns his attention entirely on the Maverick.
“You are a divine nightmare.” The Butcher, remembering himself, lets his tone drip into a growl, one hand sweeping around Danta to his lower back, tugging him close while the other lifts to snatch his jaw, angling them for a chaste kiss. It doesn’t last long, because it’s his turn to reveal his little show of force, twisting them with his body to press Danta back against the bed post.
// you're not iconic, you are just like them all. don't act like you don't know //
