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 absolutely a mock offended glimmer that flits across the butcher’s face. He does have a tendency to be hot headed, though it took a lot for him to reach that point. Lately, he’s been good, everything hasn’t come too close to striking that sharp edge within him and he’s been able to keep it buried down. His playful offense melts into a deep chuckle, the blanket bouncing a little with each bout of laughter.
As she says she’s hard to please, the butcher does look toward her as he stretches out a touch, long spidery legs drifting toward the fire as he lets his typically perfect posture slump for the comfort of the flame. “Tell me something I do not know, darling.” He retorts, shooting her an amused grin just as sharp and affectionate as the one she shoots his way.
But then the conversation shifts, the glow of fire along her face illuminates her hair and horns in that youthful look, relaxed and comfortable. The butcher harbors a touch of pride for it, as if it were a treasure to be able to be in her presence while she was like this, before he makes his jest to prolong the moment. It feels good, to see her so relaxed, to joke with him back and forth without a single pause, as if they could go back and forth for eternity.
Which, given the subject, they might.
“Are your drawing skills as good as your singing?” He asks pointedly, lips quirking up with a sharper smile, before he’s fully tilting his horned head toward her in surprise when she turns the question onto him. “Thalassa, darling, you are far better than a foot stool.” He says with a whisper of dramatics aired into his tone, until his surprise curls to a glimmer of mischief, as he very clearly is being a little shit right now. His voice even takes on an almost fatherly glint, still just as dramatic. “You would make a perfect arm rest. Do not settle for less.” He hides his smirk behind his glass as he takes a long slow sip of the bourbon.
As she says she’s hard to please, the butcher does look toward her as he stretches out a touch, long spidery legs drifting toward the fire as he lets his typically perfect posture slump for the comfort of the flame. “Tell me something I do not know, darling.” He retorts, shooting her an amused grin just as sharp and affectionate as the one she shoots his way.
But then the conversation shifts, the glow of fire along her face illuminates her hair and horns in that youthful look, relaxed and comfortable. The butcher harbors a touch of pride for it, as if it were a treasure to be able to be in her presence while she was like this, before he makes his jest to prolong the moment. It feels good, to see her so relaxed, to joke with him back and forth without a single pause, as if they could go back and forth for eternity.
Which, given the subject, they might.
“Are your drawing skills as good as your singing?” He asks pointedly, lips quirking up with a sharper smile, before he’s fully tilting his horned head toward her in surprise when she turns the question onto him. “Thalassa, darling, you are far better than a foot stool.” He says with a whisper of dramatics aired into his tone, until his surprise curls to a glimmer of mischief, as he very clearly is being a little shit right now. His voice even takes on an almost fatherly glint, still just as dramatic. “You would make a perfect arm rest. Do not settle for less.” He hides his smirk behind his glass as he takes a long slow sip of the bourbon.
Astaroth
fate's been playing the long game on us, sweetheart
