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
He doesn’t refute her comment, btu there’s a glimmer of exhaustion as he knew she’d be drawing dicks on his forehead. So rather than complain verbally with a variety of pretty words, the butcher simply sinks back in the chair as the blanket falls a little more around his shoulders as he tilts his horned head back with a low “ughhh” that escapes him with all of the air of drama he’s got in his bones.
It doesn’t last too long, though, with the way he inclines his head toward her to offer the fatherly tone – lips quirked in the smirk he hides behind the glass of bourbon he takes a sip from. Relishing the burn, it’s with a snicker that comes shortly after that Astaroth’s free hand presses against his middle. “I have been sewn up impeccably, haven’t I?” He smirks, the laugh low and gentle.
Catching the amusement in her gaze, it’s reflected in his own – a rich honeyed mahogany that meets the sea-storm blues. “Absolutely, I would. There is no need to worry about that.” He says with the seriousness of as if they were talking about true wills. They aren’t, and it’s certainly with amusement to talk about such dark topics, as if the butcher couldn’t imagine either of them going anywhere soon.
“Spook will have to find a new crew, no? Perhaps they all will have little to no voice. A nearly mute ship on the seas.” He muses thoughtfully, swirling the remaining bourbon in his glass as his head tilts and the fire cracks in the hearth.
It doesn’t last too long, though, with the way he inclines his head toward her to offer the fatherly tone – lips quirked in the smirk he hides behind the glass of bourbon he takes a sip from. Relishing the burn, it’s with a snicker that comes shortly after that Astaroth’s free hand presses against his middle. “I have been sewn up impeccably, haven’t I?” He smirks, the laugh low and gentle.
Catching the amusement in her gaze, it’s reflected in his own – a rich honeyed mahogany that meets the sea-storm blues. “Absolutely, I would. There is no need to worry about that.” He says with the seriousness of as if they were talking about true wills. They aren’t, and it’s certainly with amusement to talk about such dark topics, as if the butcher couldn’t imagine either of them going anywhere soon.
“Spook will have to find a new crew, no? Perhaps they all will have little to no voice. A nearly mute ship on the seas.” He muses thoughtfully, swirling the remaining bourbon in his glass as his head tilts and the fire cracks in the hearth.
Astaroth
fate's been playing the long game on us, sweetheart
