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?"

"tell me, sister, how oft do you find yourself thinking things you later deem immoral?" he looks out the window of the church building, arms folded and no attention really given to the nun that stands not far off - that hasn't even said anything yet or alerted him to her presence. "profanities, tiny wishes of ill on others that you justify would be well earned if it just so happened that it did come about. little things that are inconsequential in the long run, but you berate yourself for?"

a soft chuff leaves him as he dips his head, then lifts it once more to look at her, almost amused with the way that his eyes slither over her form. "it sounds as if god is trying to tell you something. perhaps you view it as failing your vows, now, but what was it we spoke of before?" head tilts a little more to the side, and he's offering her that faint, no-good smile. "if it were not god's will, it would not come about. no? why would the almighty put upon you these feelings, these desires, if he did not wish for you to do something about them?"

they had been led to the back room of that otherwise dusty, old, unassuming bar by a smallish woman that had been silent the entirety of the interaction, only dipping her head to the man settled on a few built up crates in acknowledgement of his own nod towards her. then, she leaves, and they are alone.

the man on the crates in the corner of the dim room draws his dark gaze up from the little piece of wood he's using a knife to whittle into the shape of a wolf, settling on the other person before his tongue rolls along his front, upper teeth with a sickening sound. his legs are stretched out - longer than feels normal and clothed in dark leather, capped in black leather, western style boots - and as he glazes them over, a grin pulls across his features.

@vulpesse liked for a starter.

very little intrigues the once-knight, but she? the girl that has pulled him so intrinsically close to herself as if she is the sun, and he a mere planet anchored by her very presence? she does more than just intrigue. she manifests within him a desire that has not been present for longer than he can recall, and even when he does pull those memories up from beneath the soil, they are muddy and clouded, only half as coated in the viscera of what he can only deem foolish adoration as he views ahri.

and so, as she prepares herself for the encroaching evening, bathed in the waning sunlight that crawls across her form and threatens to drag him under her current yet again, beau comes to stand behind her, a hand placing on her shoulder while the other rests at her hip, his head dipping down to meet the crook of her neck as the palm beside it slips against that stalk to keep her from pulling away. lips brush her skin, but no other affection is laid there, only the deep, scraggled wretch of his voice warming her flesh.

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

even as the population of the streets starts to thin, the man donned in dark leathers and a hood over his head to match does not break stride. does not fall back a few more paces to lessen his suspicion. no, perhaps without being obvious, the woman he trails has sunk hooks into him.

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.