#beau answer.

WHAT POPULAR COWBOY ARCHETYPE ARE YOU?

RABIES. WESLEY.

THE LONELY FARMER. you're a homely, shy, but rough individual who lives on your own terms, pretty sheltered. you're gentle and understanding, willing to help anyone with a good heart that asks to stay a night or two, but you've always got a rifle tucked behind your back, just in case. you're probably heartbroken, whether it be a lost love or family, but when a dashing stranger comes by you find them easy to open up to and talk with. you just won't admit it outright.

BEAU.

THE RETIRED GUNSLINGER. you're known around town through whispers and head nods, but in reality you're probably easy to find- at the corner table playing cards. you're notorious for your skill, and in your youth you were wild and reckless, but you've tried to settle down. when trouble comes to town, you summon the old guard and take care of business before falling gently back into the shadows.

DOGMEAT.

THE COLD OUTLAW you do what's best for you, and you alone. you hope it comes across that anyone you associate with is merely a pawn in your game. because of this you're a 'tweener when it comes to what's considered "good" or "bad". your past definitely involves an early exposure to how cruel the world can be and gave you the survival mentality… you're not quite bloodthirsty but you're not scared of it either. deep down you could use a hug or something though. once someone earns your trust (which takes a long time) they'll find you the most loyal person they've ever met, and that just maybe you've got a little heart deep down.

his visage is not blank, but there is a blanket neutrality that is faintly tinged at the edges by arrogance. he takes a step forward, closer to her so that a hand can come up to brush an errant strand of hair from her face. it's a deceptively kind gesture, matching the viperous smile on his lips. "that's because i am, girl. everything i do is justified; a direct diction from god is justification enough for most. is an assignment - a call to action - from your holy father - not enough for you?" his brows knit, laying pressure on her devotion not to him, but to the church and the faith he knows she holds close to her chest. "is your god's word something you would so openly question, sister seraphine?"

link to the randomizer !! stolen from: @brokenfist !! tagging: @wihlted & @awkwardcourage & @etharest & @thcbvtcher !!

@moonpehtals sent : i grew up pretending sticks were little guns. / vivianne for the wheel

there is a depth to the simple phrase that makes his spine arch, pulling away from the invisible wall he stands against at any given time, based upon his posture. few elicit such a reaction from him - he who thinks himself god - and fewer still see it.

but they do. they absolutely read him as if he is an entry level reading story, pulling words from the cardboard pages and stringing them through the air without effort.

he is a priest, and yet, for so long he never believed either party truly existed outside of himself. so, as their fingers touch along the falsehood of the white collar at the base of his throat, beau swallows.

it is not fear.

it is arousal.

his hands remain fixed at the small of his back as his head tips forward and he looks over their form, their perfection cast out by the creator.

"i will give it, without hesitation." his voice does not shake, but lilts with an attention uncharacteristic of one knowing what they're up against. "in exchange for more." power. lust. control. anything the fallen one is willing to give.

if there's one thing that beau has a small sense of pride over when it comes to catholicism, it's that they haven't changed their way of dressing in seemingly forever, thus he knows his way around every inch of the traditional wear of a habit. in the moments before, he's helped her remove the less fun parts - the shorts, the horribly modest underwear, leaving her in only the the upper parts of her uniform. parts that soon will be soiled with sin.

soon, acretia is on the floor, because what better place? her back pressed against the tile, his fingers tracing up the inner swathe of her left leg to push the fabric of her holy gown up, up until it pins loosely there at her hips. "lift your legs," he commands in a tone quiet, but no less authoritative, as he hovers over her, slowly getting down not to his knees, but his belly, where she can still see that white glean of his clerical collar clearly. he wants her to know this is filthy. regardless of their true alignment with the church, baseline, this is wrong.

as her body fulfills his order, one of his hands lays against the underside of her thigh, pressing it towards her center more as his visage dips inward, wasting no time in frivolity or pretending he doesn't know what he's doing. tongue laves out, running along her exposed slit from bottom to top, dipping inward between the folds of soft skin to find the bundle of nerves he seeks.

lips come together around her clit, suckling lightly before his tongue flats against her core and draws upwards again, that free hand taking not one, but two of those long fingers and slipping them into her entry curling upwards as dark gaze focuses up onto her visage.

two black priests, and neither of them very adherent to the responsibility that comes with the generalized title of priest at all, seeing as even now, with beau at the back of the woman as she sits, fills out what looks to be paperwork he will never find interest in, the most unholy thoughts run through his mind.

acretia sits up just a touch, straightening her spine enough that her head is at his midrange, and the opportunity is seized, everything else thrown to the wayside as his hand slithers from her shoulder to cup around the front of her throat. except here, he is not as cruel as he normally would be. not to her.

not to an equal.

his fingertips gently press into the sides of her throat, thumb running alongside the tendon there as the webbing between fore and thumb tucks upwards, guiding her into looking up to him. when she does - because he will not stop the guidance until it happens -, his own head lowers, body crooking over her so that he can kiss, not at her lips, but along her jaw at first.

they are tender kisses, soft and kind and without the brace of teeth against bone just yet. but soon, of course, that changes, and he is nipping at the soft little swathes beneath the edge of her jaw, dragging his tongue's tip against the line of that bone before he comes up to meet her mouth with his own.

tongue slides into her mouth easily, as if her body is his just as much as the assumption can be made that he is hers. the only moment there is a lack of connection is the millisecond that comes occasionally when he pulls back to bite at her lower lip with those sharpened canines, lightly puncturing the tender flesh before going right back to it.