You can’t bullshit a bullshitter, Litotes used to say to Draco. When he was younger, he used to find it funny and wise; but now? Now he grins because he knows what his father meant. He knows that, while overused, it is an adage to keep tucked tightly to the family of shadows’ heart because they know they are bullshitters the most when they are faced with one.
Gospel, for all of her might and fury, bullshits Draco in that first second. Her coy drawl might mask her serpentine nature to most, but the demon knows too much of hiding one’s raw nature. He does not grow angry or uncomfortable, though; in fact, he loves her all the more for it.
There is a certain innocence to Draco in that he does not know what it feels like to choke on lust and need; so when the desire rises from the pit of his stomach and burns his throat, he expels it with a simple, “I’ve found you.” Yes, he has found her, this match to the bitter venom Draco carries in his veins.
Gospel, she says; and Draco thinks she is like the singing of hymns to the Dark God. He thinks if Carnage had a temple, he would delight in Gospel being its mistress. But the fading of her smile tells him she will never settle for being a man’s—even a god of man’s—mistress.
“It’s a pleasure, Gospel. My name is Draco.” His voice is a low murmur, and though he uses his typical charming vocabulary, his delivery is far more dark. “Tell me, Gospel,” Draco adds as he leans in close to her proud head, “do you like violence?” He tilts his head now, eyeing the chestnut locks of her mane and vulnerable curve of her neck.
“I’ve been looking for something violent.”
