He’d been contemplating things since his arrival. A red mark marred his skin, desecrating the sanctity of his own beauty by sullying his flawless skin. He only had one scar on his body and it was hidden by his fluffy locks of hair. A gift from Bahamut. Eyes narrowed slowly as he felt a strange fluctuation in the air. As though the magic was growing thicker. A tug upon his consciousness caused him to turn his head slowly.
Slowly, Kuja raised his brow, eyes drifting across the woman’s form briefly. She called him ‘Master’…so he supposed that meant she was his Servant in this strange place. If he was frightened, there was no show of it upon his face. He simply raised an idle brow at the woman as she fixed the barrel of her gun against his forehead.
“Oooh. And I was starting to worry that I would have a positively boring Servant. It seems I was mistaken. For once, I’m glad I was wrong about my presumptions. Were you to pull that trigger, you would find yourself with a Master lacking in power that I do not possess. You may even find that the pitiful bullet housed in that gun would not even do me any harm.” Though he could sense it was no ordinary gun. Not in her hands.
“Regardless, I’ve no interest in controlling you. At least not for the time being. I’m weary and would love to know more about the beauty who calls me Master. Perhaps your name shall suffice for now. I am Kuja. I do so adore good stories…so feel free to write your own until I’m in need of your aid. Though I’m capable of handling myself.”
No fear.
Avenger looks into those eyes-- so blue, bluer than her own, even-- and sees not a lick of anything resembling fear. Not of her, and certainly not of the bullet she’s threatening to use to splatter his grey matter across the walls. That much makes her thumb ease away from the hammer, but his reply-- that makes her lift the barrel toward the sky. He’s not afraid and he seems, for some reason, to think highly of her attitude.
The confusion flickers in her face for only a moment, and then she eyes him, wary, as he continues speaking.
Moments later, she finds herself absolutely dumbstruck, as her Master professes to loving a good Story. Fingers squeeze around the pistol’s grip, the other hand coming up and across her mouth, gripping tight at her cheeks, her jaw. It’s almost painful, almost pleasurable; Cinderella’s arm drops, curls around her partly-bared stomach, and she pitches forward, bent double as she begins to tremble. The sounds come quietly at first, soft and muffled, scattered and pitched enough that they could be mistaken for sobs. Really though, she’s as far from crying as she could get, and as she straightens, she’s nearly quivering with delight, strangled noises escaping between her clenching fingers.
“--aha...haha...hahahahaHAHAHAHAHAHA!”
Cinderella veritably howls with delight, her fingers dragging from her jaw and down her neck, head thrown back for the barest instant, mirth overflowing.
“Master... hahaha, oh, my Master-- if you love a good story, then you’ll love what I’ve got planned...!” Arms unfurling, they spread wide, and Cinderella feels delighted at the idea of someone who so immediately understands that no one knows better how her story should go than she herself. “This Avenger-- this fallen Princess, this tainted, ash-covered girl...” One arm sweeps across her stomach again, this time to move into an overwrought, theatrical bow. “No one knows a story better than a fairy tale, after all! So trust that more than anyone, Cinderella, will give you more than any of those paltry vehicles for morality could ever hope to accomplish!”
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