you were destined for the glory, the honor and the fame
i was destined for the bullet, to be the gun with no name
i was destined for the bullet, to be the gun with no name
“Gods, I really am.” He agrees with a snort, his accent thicker and dragging on the r a little longer than he otherwise might before he’s twisting toward her with all the air of amusement for something that likely is just as corny and horrible as he thinks it is – but at least it would improve the damper of the mood.
He’s hoping so, anyway.
Extending his hand, the butcher watches as her glamour fades away, leaving her in what he imagines to be quite the gentle wave of a mermaid – if you didn’t count the smudges of blood still under her chin, not washed away by the rain. So he meets her halfway, his own glamour falling away to let his wet hair splay a little differently across his face, making him appear almost scruffier as her slender hand slips into his calloused one, shaking once for the motion but lingering in spite of it – words and centuries apart and yet… So similarly the opposite of what they’ve become.
Hearing his name from her lips is as abrasive as it is when he hears Danta say it. As abrasive as he imagines it is (or was) each time he spoke Danta’s full name. As abrasive as sandpaper against skin, leaving it raw and chafing.
Her hand releases his and she looks like she might throw up, shaking out her hand and Astaroth leans back against the allogator and the wet ground with a booming bark of a laugh before his hands find his face to rub at the blood and rain, covering his eyes while his glamour still remains in place. “That was disgusting.” He agrees through the ripple of laughter, his hands falling from his face backwards to rest in the wet dark strands of his hair and against the cooling corpse of the allogator.
“A new deal, hm? I’ll never call you by your old name if you never call me by mine?” Tilting his head toward her, there’s a kind of innocent gleam in his gaze perfected by the lack of his horns and tail even as he flashes her his too sharp grin, like children confiding in a secret never to be shared again.
He’s hoping so, anyway.
Extending his hand, the butcher watches as her glamour fades away, leaving her in what he imagines to be quite the gentle wave of a mermaid – if you didn’t count the smudges of blood still under her chin, not washed away by the rain. So he meets her halfway, his own glamour falling away to let his wet hair splay a little differently across his face, making him appear almost scruffier as her slender hand slips into his calloused one, shaking once for the motion but lingering in spite of it – words and centuries apart and yet… So similarly the opposite of what they’ve become.
Hearing his name from her lips is as abrasive as it is when he hears Danta say it. As abrasive as he imagines it is (or was) each time he spoke Danta’s full name. As abrasive as sandpaper against skin, leaving it raw and chafing.
Her hand releases his and she looks like she might throw up, shaking out her hand and Astaroth leans back against the allogator and the wet ground with a booming bark of a laugh before his hands find his face to rub at the blood and rain, covering his eyes while his glamour still remains in place. “That was disgusting.” He agrees through the ripple of laughter, his hands falling from his face backwards to rest in the wet dark strands of his hair and against the cooling corpse of the allogator.
“A new deal, hm? I’ll never call you by your old name if you never call me by mine?” Tilting his head toward her, there’s a kind of innocent gleam in his gaze perfected by the lack of his horns and tail even as he flashes her his too sharp grin, like children confiding in a secret never to be shared again.
Astaroth
fate's been playing the long game on us, sweetheart
