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
It’s one of his monikers, and has been for quite some time if the stories have anything to say about it. But after having dumped a fair amount of story onto her about what’s happened in his most recent portion of his life, the butcher leaves those stories for another time, only to chuckle playfully to hear her comment of clothes. “I truthfully do not mind either way, darling. I was more concerned for your clothes than you.” Teasing enough to stick his tongue out at her as she passes by him to enter her home while he holds the door open, the butcher nicks his tongue in the process and promptly sticks it back in to suck away the iron that’s appeared.
Appreciative of the warmth, his attempts to dry off are mostly running a flare of fire through his dripping hair and along his horns, dismissing it quickly to start unbuttoning the waistcoat, unhooking the chain that ties it together and slipping it into his pocket. All the while he’s busy with that, she’s rummaging through the box at the end of her bed for something that might fit, even if he hardly has qualms of undressing before the captain. “The weather is quite lovely up here, before you ask.” He teases her with a wink, gratefully accepting the blanket as he sets it over the back of a chair as he slips out of the waistcoat, draping it over the next one before unbuttoning and shedding his shirt.
It's probably the first time she gets the full view of his scars and not just the open shirt he’d had when she’d been cursed with the lisp. As he peels the pale shirt from his skin, it reveals long arcs of bark-like scar tissue spanning across his chest and his back, drifting down the top portion of his arms, as if he’d truly been flayed alive. The edges aren’t as bad as the center of his chest and back, as if they’d carved their hole and had dug from there, the stretches of scar tissue like a starburst in the center that radiates out for smaller damage, but still plenty.
And if she looks closely as he replaces the blanket on the back of the chair with the shirt in question, she’d spot the way there’s softer scars, discolored against his golden skin, where binds had sat centuries ago. “Much better, thank you.” He hums softly, wrapping the blanket around himself high enough to act as if a turtleneck that he tucks his head into for a brief moment as he warms up before it drops low enough to see the arcs of scar tissue once again.
Appreciative of the warmth, his attempts to dry off are mostly running a flare of fire through his dripping hair and along his horns, dismissing it quickly to start unbuttoning the waistcoat, unhooking the chain that ties it together and slipping it into his pocket. All the while he’s busy with that, she’s rummaging through the box at the end of her bed for something that might fit, even if he hardly has qualms of undressing before the captain. “The weather is quite lovely up here, before you ask.” He teases her with a wink, gratefully accepting the blanket as he sets it over the back of a chair as he slips out of the waistcoat, draping it over the next one before unbuttoning and shedding his shirt.
It's probably the first time she gets the full view of his scars and not just the open shirt he’d had when she’d been cursed with the lisp. As he peels the pale shirt from his skin, it reveals long arcs of bark-like scar tissue spanning across his chest and his back, drifting down the top portion of his arms, as if he’d truly been flayed alive. The edges aren’t as bad as the center of his chest and back, as if they’d carved their hole and had dug from there, the stretches of scar tissue like a starburst in the center that radiates out for smaller damage, but still plenty.
And if she looks closely as he replaces the blanket on the back of the chair with the shirt in question, she’d spot the way there’s softer scars, discolored against his golden skin, where binds had sat centuries ago. “Much better, thank you.” He hums softly, wrapping the blanket around himself high enough to act as if a turtleneck that he tucks his head into for a brief moment as he warms up before it drops low enough to see the arcs of scar tissue once again.
Astaroth
fate's been playing the long game on us, sweetheart
