have i gone mad?

cyrus aurum / april sixth march hare / vale of tears

[twilahasbecks]

(sweet, sweet) fantasy.

[twilahasbecks]

“let’s go home,” he suggests softly, eyebrows raised in a silent plea. “to my house. no one else is around right now, and won’t be for a few days. and then…we can spend as much time doing whatever you want.” he flashes a smile, which he’s sure looks strange through the veil of his tears, but he means it, more than he’s meant anything in a long time.

[udxcyrus]

he doesn’t comment on the redness brimming the edges of the doll’s eyes, or the little unshed tears that gather within them, hand only slipping down to cautiously cradle harlow’s cheek and thumb away anything that threatens to fall and stain his skin. he’s not entirely sure if it’s genuinely frustrated crying, or if harlow is simply being a brat, a child, to appear cute or to win cyrus’ attention, but either way it’s working and the hare really, really doesn’t want to see him cry at all.

“he wasn’t worth it anyways, dear,” he murmurs, head tipping only subtly towards the touch that he’s given. cy will take any form of tenderness from harlow, even if it’s only done with a goal in mind, but somehow this feels like it’s realer, more personal, means something a little more than simply wanting to touch. (it’s either that, or he’s just reading into things far too much, which is a much more viable and realistic option.) he doesn’t even bother sparing a glance down at the man, nose merely crinkling in distaste at the thought of him, “it isn’t your fault that he turned out to be even more pitiful and worthless than we’d originally thought.”

the mention of home makes him start a little, and then pause, blinking a few times in slight confusion. the way it’s phrased makes him think of a home that belongs to them, of their home, and admittedly his heart speeds up and skips a beat or two at the thought. even after it’s been clarified that harlow had meant his own home, in the dollmaker’s land, visuals arise of a bedroom belonging to the two of them and of mornings spent together in each other’s arms and of nights spent together hunting in the darkness of the vale with blood on their fingertips and smiles on their faces and even later nights and early mornings spent tasting murder and death and passion on each other’s skin, lips, tongue.

it takes a lot of willpower to shoo the images away, to catch his breath again from where it’d stalled.

“are you inviting me to stay the night?” he teases, managing to keep his voice somewhat even, trying to worm a genuine smile from the mask that harlow’s put on and taking a step back just to slip his hand back into the doll’s, fingers lacing as he gestures the taller to lead the way. “it’d be the first time i can remember staying beneath a roof at night for a very, very long time, that’s for sure.”

[twilahasbecks]

(sweet, sweet) fantasy.

[twilahasbecks]

shit. he hears the thud before his brain recognises what he’s seeing, the form of the quivering old man dropping hard into the earth beneath him. fuck fuck fuck. harlow stops dead in his tracks, fingers wrapped tight around cyrus’, breath stuck, near-hysterical due merely to disappointment. “there goes that,” he half-chokes, half-laughs, looking into cyrus’ eyes to find some semblance of calm – if not he might just cry from frustration.

[udxcyrus]

the kiss to his cheek affects him a lot more than he thought it would, with the headspace he’s already been put into, his breath puffing out shaky between his teeth as they clench together. cyrus smiles despite himself, because it's just so harlow, through and through, and even when he's upset due to his own overthinking, the little things that make the doll himself can still make his own heart lift even that slightest bit once more.

he has a brief worry about how much his mood and mental state is affected by a single person, but is quick to dismiss it.

cy's toes feel cemented together, coagulated blood having sunk through the thick grass and between them, making a schlicking sound each time he takes a step and wiggles his toes and giving him little warm, pleasant shivers that spark that little part of his brain that embraces everything and anything blood and gorey and malicious. with that feeling sinking into the forefront of his mind, he loses track of what he's hearing: a heartbeat that's picked up in pace, closeby, bordering on the edge of too fast -- and then... nothing at all, before the body is dropping like a rock in water and it's over.

first he crouches down, nudging the leg of the man with a finger as if confirming he's dead -- as if he can't already tell, with the lack of breathing and pulse. but it's worth a try, and he hmphs a little as he straightens, before turning to his second priority: harlow, who looks absolutely devastated, if his tone of voice and how hard he clutches to cy's hand is any indication.

"hey," he murmurs, a touch of softness in his voice as he reaches up to trail his fingertips just gently along the underside of the doll's chin, down his neck and to his shoulder, before back up to sift into his hair. his nose nudges up against harlow's, mouths a half centimeter apart and breath quiet as he offers a smile. "no big deal, my sweet. we can always have fun some other way."

[twilahasbecks]

(sweet, sweet) fantasy.

[twilahasbecks]

he slumps his shoulders just a bit, shaking, trying to get the previous moment’s annoyance out of his frame, then straightens back up, reaching down and taking cyrus’ hand in his, lacing their fingers together without any sort of forethought. “come, i would far rather see an old man suffer than our enjoyment of today.” a pause, a somewhat forced smile, and then, “did you hear where he went? because i have been far too distracted to pay any attention after he left us.”

[udxcyrus]

he’s sure there will be bruises in the shape of harlow’s fingertips on his hips later on from how tightly he had been held, the area already nagging at him in little throbs after the doll steps away. despite the now soured aura between them, he takes pleasure in the thought that they will remain even if he blinks and harlow disappears in front of him, if he blinks and forgets all they’ve ever had. the hand he’d at at harlow’s jaw slips down, gives his shoulder a little squeeze, a reassurance that, “ah, it hasn’t been ruined just yet. we’ve still got to find him, maybe if he’s not quite dead yet we can have a little fun prying him open a bit further,” and then he lets the contact fall from the marionette.

the praises of earlier still sit somewhere low in his stomach, a heavy rock that weighs him down with the thought of them and what exactly they mean. it feels like the two of them have been building up to something, a slow burn that eats away at cyrus more than he would like to admit. he’s been involved for far too long and sometimes it’s as if harlow is beginning to grow entangled with whatever’s between them, and he allows himself to hope, but then there’s moments like these that dash his hopes away as quickly as they’d come, the irritation in the doll’s stance and expression and words clear in their message more than anything else.

but then he takes cy’s hand in his own without a second thought, and the doubts surface even stronger.

“this way,” he manages, voice surprisingly sounding far from the croak he’d been expecting. his footsteps carry them towards the forest where the man had entered it, concentration nearly entirely on the way that harlow’s fingers feel between his own. he’s not sure if the breathing he hears is the old man’s, ragged from the blood that’s surely hindering his lungs ability to inflate, or his own, loud in his own ears from his overthinking. “they always leave a trail to follow, love, you should know that by now.”

[twilahasbecks]

(sweet, sweet) fantasy.

[twilahasbecks]

---

his free arm slides around the hare’s waist, drawing him in closer, pressing their bodies flush together. “do you really want to do this?” he asks quietly, as though speaking the question louder might shatter something in the atmosphere if he’s not careful. “should we just wait for him to bleed out before we have our fun?”

[udxcyrus]

watching harlow’s countenance transition from absolute delight to absolute irritation strikes a chord in his stomach, something stuck between self loathing for being the cause of the doll’s pretty smile’s disappearance and a little delight that he’s able to influence his emotions as much as he does. he’s not entirely sure he’s made a good choice, because he knows that the dollmaker’s children -- this one especially -- are not shy when it comes to being cruel, but he enjoys the way his hip smarts with the grip upon it and the brush of their mouths upon one another.

cyrus’ eyes close and he lets the praise just wash over him, the words leaving a bitter taste at the back of his throat no matter the positivity they preach. playing with him, as if this is all a game, and to harlow, it most likely is. it’s with only the slightest of twinges in his chest that he wonders if, when he forgets (not if, when), harlow will even attempt to rebuild what little of a shaky relationship they have. (he decides that no, he probably won’t, will probably find another plaything to have fun with that’s more amiable, won’t want to start again with the same one. it hurts less than he thinks it would if he wasn’t expecting it.)

“thank you. how sweet,” he manages to murmur, manages to muster up a convincing smile to go along. the hand that is at his side when they press together slides up, fingertips just brushing over the length of harlow’s arm before they settle on his shoulder, pulling him down til they’re nose to nose.

he presses the swell of his lips against the corner of harlow’s mouth, slowly and deliberately, and then down, to the underside of his chin, humming softly there, “unless you want to pare our fun time down to a measly ten minutes -- now nine, maybe -- we should most likely wait, no? i’d like to take a little more time than that to treasure you like you’re entitled to be treasured.”

[twilahasbecks]

(sweet, sweet) fantasy.

[twilahasbecks]

---

with deep admiration and something close to affection in his face, now, harlow wraps a bloody red hand around cyrus’ hip, pulls him close and gives him a warm, lingering kiss to the side of his neck. “he won’t get out, you don’t think?” he murmurs into the pale column of flesh. “we can just wait for the sound of his collapse.” cyrus, as always, was right; this was boring, and they’ll have to do it again, sometime in the near future – the beautiful murder he’d fantasised night after night was not what was achieved here today, after all. so he cranes just slightly, imploring with his eyes for the hare to kiss him.

[udxcyrus]

he stands, contented with the fact that harlow likes his idea so much as to visibly excite over it, stifling the utterly joyous grin that erupts from the compliment that comes along with the doll’s pleasure into something that won’t quite show off so many teeth. his hands fold together neatly behind his back as he watches the doll retrieve his pins from where they’re embedded through skin and into the ground, voice cheeky, “ah, i don’t think you’ve mentioned it today. i wouldn’t mind hearing it again, though?”

cyrus doesn’t bother to watch the man as he scrambles to get up and away, much too absorbed in the way that the marionette’s expression comes so alive as he watches the clod limp his way away. he doesn’t worry about losing the man entirely -- his hearing is heightened enough even in this form where he knows he’ll be able to hear him for as far as he can possibly get, which shouldn’t be too far at all considering his injuries. it’s much more fascinating to, with tongue curled against the inside of his teeth, wholly and entirely admire the way harlow looks, and then the way he smells, once he gets close enough.

cy’s breath is shaky with how close the other is, but he swallows back the arousal that comes with the proximity, the smell of blood that wafts into the air from the ground, from the doll himself. his hand comes up and he just carefully cradles harlow’s jaw in his fingers, delicately, as if handling porcelain, which he may as well be doing with how precious of a being he’s holding. “i really don’t think he’ll even reach the middle of the vale, my love, don’t worry.”

he smiles, crookedly, willing himself not to let the expression that harlow sports slip through the cracks he’s created and melt into fondness, failing miserably. he leans in, up, swiping the blood off of the doll’s cheekbone with a thumb and onto his mouth instead before he takes the bottom lip between his teeth, tugging just gently and putting off the inevitable kiss just to tease, just a little, though he knows he’ll give in as soon as harlow asks, “how long do you think he’ll take?”

[twilahasbecks]

(sweet, sweet) fantasy.

[twilahasbecks]

“how do you think, my love?” he prompts, leaning down to press an affectionate sort of kiss to cyrus’ crown. “i quite like what we’ve already done… but i’m always open to suggestion.”

[udxcyrus]

cyrus chuckles softly in agreement with the sentiment -- the young ones are always fun, have more heart and vigor and more will to fight back when they remember how much fight they still have to left to live. he’s always found it amusing that their hope to live takes so long to break, that sometimes it doesn’t, lasts right up until their last breath comes and blood bubbles up in their lungs instead. this one, though, this old thing -- he’s putting up somewhat of a fight, yes, but it’s weak, boring, the light in his eyes long faded away.

he doesn’t even do much besides scream and make a feeble attempt to bat harlow away and cy soon grows bored with watching him no matter how enticing the bubbles in his blood might be, gaze gravitating instead to the doll himself. (it’s a much more pleasing sight, though he figures his opinion may be slightly biased.)

he positively preens under the kiss he is given, no matter how chaste, the tenderness of the action slipping through and warming the tips of his fingers, toes, and nose, no matter how non-genuine he’s nearly positive it is. after all, someone as exquisite as harlow, while a large fan of receiving love, deserves someone much better to give it to than cyrus -- he’s long since known this, but he takes what he can get anyways, and gives all he has.

he sighs and reluctantly glances back down at the man beside him, drawing his blade down and just scratching the surface of his throat red with it’s edge, not quite enough to puncture. “we could take out your pins and see how far he can run. that might be a little more exciting than this.”

[twilahasbecks]

(sweet, sweet) fantasy.

[twilahasbecks]

---

“darling,” he singsongs over his shoulder, beckoning cyrus to join him, “i know we’ve probably talked about it before, but i simply can’t remember – are you going to do this one, or am i?”

[udxcyrus]

no matter how many times he watches harlow bait someone into a false sense of security and then snatch it out from beneath their feet again and again, he never grows tired of it. there’s some perverse sort of satisfaction that comes along with seeing the object of his affections with bloodlust in his eyes, violent mischief in the lilt to his voice, and cyrus bathes in it whenever he has the chance. he steps back as his hand is released and ducks out of the half bow he had lowered into in order to kiss the doll’s fingers, hand falling to his sides once more and feeling oddly empty, cold as he takes his place standing slightly away.

cyrus steps up onto a pile of larger rocks for a better vantage point to watch harlow play with the man, pins and all, unable to help the smile that pulls at his lips as he does. the poor thing struggles his best against the bounds that hold him down but the more he does, the more he bleeds, the more the wounds open, red seeping down and into the grass beneath him to stain it as he gasps and pleads worthlessly, words falling upon deaf ears.

when he steps down once more it’s with a large, contemplative sigh and he draws his weapon before crouching down, hand now feeling much more full and warm and teeth biting the tip of his tongue in a loose effort to stifle the grin that threatens to split his face in two. his blade presses against the underside of the elder’s chin, just enough to bead blood beneath it from where it pierces the surface as the male shakes with his struggle to worm away.

“can’t we share?” he says, voice all false sugar and lips pulling into a pleading pout when he finally turns back to harlow -- strangely pleased to see that there’s already a little splatter on his hands, his face. “he won’t last very long anyways, what with having been so close to death already in his age.”

[twilahasbecks]

(sweet, sweet) fantasy.

---

really, he is biding his time. waiting. cyrus is around here somewhere; it is the objetive of their game, that they kill together. so he dawdles, acting as if he, too is lost. the man makes a worried noise, and harlow soothes him, cooing, “it’s okay, this place is just tricky, and i’m so tired…perhaps we should rest a moment?”

[udxcyrus]

cyrus thinks he has grown soft, these past few months, nearly unbearably so. he’s always been weak when it comes to harlow, the doll’s pretty face and even prettier demeanor easily worming its way under his skin and taking home there in the form of his constant lookout for gifts to don upon him, but before the ball it’d been much easier to keep himself sewn up at the edges and safe from falling too deeply. after the ball, though, he thinks he’s really let himself go, and can’t even bring himself to care as much as he might have months before.

he doesn’t remember falling in love with murder and bloodshed, but he can remember falling in love with harlow -- sometime around when they’d begun partaking in his first love together, blood mixing between their mouths and smearing between their skin as they pressed to one another.

and it terrifies him just as much as it thrills him, this sort of love. he kisses like he’s got everything to lose (and really, he does -- cyrus is so afraid of forgetting this, of forgetting what it’s like to taste copper against harlow’s lips, that he kisses and fucks to try and imprint it into his physical memory, because that seems to last much longer than his memory of actual events does) and he kills much less frequently, the little zip of adrenaline and madness it would have brought before now less intense without the doll around him to share that feeling. he feels like he’s watching the pieces of himself unravel and fall into harlow’s palms, feels as if harlow is taking the threads of who he is and winding them into something different, something too attached.

but in times like this, where he’s stepping between branches of trees to follow harlow and the poor victim he’s roped into the vale, he can’t bring himself to care. cyrus watches the false pretense the doll has set up to lure the unsuspecting man and he chuckles, the noise lost within the sounds of the forest, because he’s grown so fond that all his worries fade away whenever harlow is around and he simply indulges as long as he’s allowed to.

once the pair reaches the clearing he toes his way down the knots in the tree and back down onto the soft mossy floor of the forest, wandering round the edges in the shadows until he simply can’t wait any longer and steps out to greet the two, blade concealed and strides carefully just clumsy enough not to reveal the tremble of excitement that thrums in his veins at the thought of what’s to come next.

“and who is this, my doll? a visitor, for me?” cyrus greets the marionette by taking his hand in a delicate touch, lips brushing over the backs of his knuckles and eyes remaining on the old man, twinkling in mirth. “you shouldn’t have.”

[udxcyrus]

⌲ breathless ` cyhr

[udxcyrus]

( udxharlow ):

he’s all too used to being led on a dance floor, but not by someone shorter than he, so it’s hard for him to have the faith that dance partners must – but he does, trusts cyrus to lead him, a quirk of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

but doing special things for harlow is something he enjoys, something he looks forward to -- the smile harlow gets when this happens has to be one of cyrus’ most favorite things and lord, does he wish to say it out loud, does he wish to express all the things swirling in his head and in his chest to said boy, but the words get caught in the recesses of his throat before he can even shape them with his lips. he opts for just squeezing the doll’s hand right back and reveling in the smile and the look they sport, fingers twitching just slightly with the urge to trace the bow of his lips, commit the expression to the memory of his fingertips as well as his mind’s eye.

he’s not entirely sure what he’s done to deserve this excessively fond treatment but he’d really, really not ever like it to stop. at least not soon.

with his hold secure both on the curve of his partner’s waist and back he leads them round the floor the best he can, the skin of his cheek buzzing with the ghost of harlow’s lips. he’s not entirely sure where he learned to dance -- his memory most certainly doesn’t go back that far -- but he thinks he must have practiced much for it to come without thinking, because his mind strays many different places than on where hie feet are going, how straight his posture is. he’s much too concentrated on imagining what the contour of harlow’s mouth would feel on his own to be able to be dancing as well as he is.

perhaps he should be looking where they’re going as they twirl round the expanse of the ballroom floor but he’d much rather nuzzle down against harlow’s neck, baby hairs tickling his nose and a lovely scent invading his senses. cyrus steps forward, across, back, to the side, the bottom hem of the doll’s dress brushing his ankles as it swishes round him with each movement. he hears the sound of a train horn blaring in the distances but pays it no mind, only pulls harlow that bit closer, their chests practically touching. he couldn’t get enough of this if he tried.

[udxcyrus]

⌲ breathless ` cyhr

[udxcyrus]

( udxharlow ):

    “You know you’re supposed to kiss a lady if she dances well,” he teases over his shoulder as he twines his fingers betwixt Cyrus’, squeezing his palm gently. “I hope that mouth of yours can do more than say nice things to me, if that’s the case.”

“you dressed up for me?” perhaps he’s taking harlow’s words out of context (he most definitely is -- he wants to let himself believe there’s a small shred of a chance that he isn’t but knows much better than that) but his tone is teasing enough to where he’s sure it comes off as the joke he tries to make it out to be. he gestures down to himself, voice still just as joking, “and here i am, in my tuesday casual attire. if i’d have known you were going to be here maybe i’d have stepped up my looks just slightly.”

maybe he would have thought to take one of the many treasures from the room he’d also stolen the suit from, taken something for the doll as a present -- it feels odd, meeting him without a gift in hand, in pocket. he doesn’t remember ever seeing harlow so pleased to see him before, without knowing that there was something coming for him out of it. it’s oddly comforting, that perhaps he doesn’t need pretty things to keep the other around.

as he follows the younger out onto the floor he tries to keep the swimming in his head to a minimum, because he wants to concentrate on every frame of harlow in his view and memorize it. the way the dress contrasts against his pale, pale skin, how it cinches at his waist -- cyrus doesn’t ever want to look away, though when he lifts his eyes from where their fingers tangle and back to the doll’s visage, he decides that the art of his facial structure, his makeup? that’s just as nice to look at.

his free hand comes to settle on harlow’s waist, his fingers delicate as they toy just slightly at the laces at the back when they curl over top of them. his smile is crooked and he stands straight, thumb brushing just briefly down the side of harlow’s hand, “we’ll just have to see how good your dancing really is first, hm?” 

[udxcyrus]

⌲ breathless ` cyhr

[udxcyrus]

( udxharlow ):

A tray of wine glasses passes overhead; Harlow snatches two such valises and offers one to his companion. He’s never been much a sober dancer, even without the wooden joints.

“ah, you believe in fate,” he hums, and though the words could come off as condescending -- usually would be, coming from cyrus’ mouth -- they end up being anything but. he’s found that most things that he would usually do have somehow softened, when it comes to harlow, have rounded about the edges and left him much less abrasive and much less protected than he’d have liked to ever be. it’s scary as it is, to be so dulled, so exposed, and he doesn’t trust harlow’s nature to be good enough o keep him in well protected hands, which only frightens him further.

the song that floats through the ballroom changes and he grins, the expression crooked as he takes one of the glasses from harlow and ducks over into the slightest of bows as thanks. “it must be fate that we came upon each other at this time then, no?” his voice is only half teasing and he has to do his best not to go pink cheeked himself at the way harlow presents himself, all pretty and vulnerable and done up the way cyrus had never known he wanted before but now never wants to lose sight of. 

he sips from his wine carefully to leave enough room to where movement won’t slosh the drink over the rim and onto harlow’s pretty, pretty dress, his other palm coming to rest half at the small of harlow’s back and over half of his waist as he tugs him a little closer. his chin tips up and cocks to the side as he does his absolute best not to concentrate on how close they are, now, despite the smell of harlow’s toothpaste now clear in the air between them. 

“i’d love to dance with you, my doll,” and he steps back, unable to take the closeness as his heartrate skyrockets into something fierce, downing all of the alcohol in one go before depositing the empty glass onto a tray that passes by. he ducks into somewhat of a curtsy, hand extended, “if you’d please. i’ll tell you every compliment and every truth about you your pretty little heart could desire.”

[udxcyrus]

⌲ breathless ` cyhr

[udxcyrus]

( udxharlow ):

     “Fancy meeting you here,” he declares, offering his hand to be kissed as is tradition of sorts with them. He still wears his ring from their last encounter; it glimmers brightly in the light of the ballroom, metal shiny against the dull satin of his black glove.

and god, if it’s hard not to go tumbling to the marble floor right then and there, knees weak and throat dry. cyrus takes the hand held out to him into careful fingers, thumb brushing just briefly over the ring wound over the top of the satin -- which seems only oddly familiar until he realizes it’s his own gift and now he’s lost for air in a whole new way. he chuckles breathlessly and bows over, raises harlow’s hand to his lips to press a kiss to its back before his mouth drags just the slightest bit up towards the inside of his wrist and he lets the contact fall.

“you’d be silly to think it’s only fancy, my love,” is what comes out of his mouth, and it feels like he’s hearing it from someone else inside his own body, because he still hasn’t gotten over how positively alluring harlow is. “you don’t think that i’d be here for any reason other than to see you, of course. that’d be so positively ridiculous of a thought for anyone to have.” and maybe cyrus’ smile is a little too genuine, and maybe it’s a little harder to dredge up the usual teasing that comes along with it, but he also doesn’t want his next words to come off as anything but truthful.

he licks his lips, hands raising halfway again and fingers twitching, itching to rest themselves on the doll’s cinched hips, “you look absolutely beautiful tonight, harlow, even more so than usually.”

[udxcyrus]

⌲ breathless ` cyhr

@udxharlow

cyrus already feels trapped enough in his own skin at times and the addition of a suit, not quite tailored uniquely to him, only stifles him further. he pulls at the cuffs, wishes they ran longer, wishes he had the resources and the connections to be able to have fashioned one for himself instead of swiping one from some unnamed chamber, from some unsuspecting, unnamed subject of the court. he supposes it’s good he at least fits in with everyone, doesn’t stand out like he most likely would have, had he had the choice in color, in cut. 

he thinks the black looks stark against his skin, at least, contrasts well, and he does have to admit that it’s a sleek fit, despite being the teensiest bit too small. he mulls about the crowd at the ball, steps careful, searching above the many heads for the familiar mop of blond he’s actually here for. cyrus has been here alone for far too long and really, if harlow doesn’t show up soon he thinks he might leave, because being in a crowd so large without something familiar to ground him is disorienting at the least, and---

“oh.” harlow is there, suddenly, in front of him, and all the air in his chest leaves in one fell swoop because he looks astonishingly beautiful, entirely marvelous, and marvel cyrus does. he’s brought back down at full force and he’s more than grounded, he’s winded, the only thing he can manage to say a half repeat, “oh, wow.”

[twilahasbecks]

a new domain.

[udxcyrus]

( udxharlow ):

----

His hand snakes out, takes Cyrus’ fingers between his own. “Please,” he implores, his brows pushed together, pleading. “Please tell me. Spare me no detail.”

if he had any breath left to take, it would have fallen right into harlow’s hands right there and then, slipped through the spaces between his teeth and along the finger that traces his lips, curled right into the cracks of his palms like it belonged there. it’s just the affection coupled with the thought of blood on such a pretty face that leaves him having to subtly gulp for air and resist the suddenly carnal urge to push the other to the ground and claim him, he swears, it’s not harlow himself. it would be this way with any pretty boy, he argues, though his arguments fall flat even to his own ears. he’s not sure any other person on the planet could have a mouth that alluring.

“it would be marvelous,” he manages to get out, voice surprisingly smooth, his fingertips twitching against the underside of the doll’s chin where they rest, pressing just gently into his throat. cyrus struggles even thinking of where to begin, his mind’s eye shrouded in too many images to count, too many fantasies to sort through and pick from. his tongue curls against the ridge of skin behind the bottom row of his teeth and chin tilts up, jaw shifting to the side as he laughs a little, “you’re going to be the death of me, my dear.”

he watches with careful eyes as harlow takes his fingers and spreads them for him, letting the muscles fall loose to let him play just how he wants. it’s anything not to look at harlow’s expression which weakens him more by the second, has him leaning just a tiny bit closer as he murmurs, “i wish i could show you.”

and then he laughs again, a little more humor in his voice, “i’ve never been good with words, love. i don’t even think there’d be enough time in the world to tell you all the ways i would enjoy taking your life from you, how amazing it would be to hold your fate in my hands.” the fingers at his side wrap around harlow’s hip, thumb pressing firmly into its bone as his canines sink into the skin of his own cheek, “i’d like to keep your face intact though, above all. i could never destroy such a wonderful marvelous.”

[twilahasbecks]

a new domain.

[udxcyrus]

( udxharlow ):

    He pauses, just a beat, and then continues on, hoping that the mention of violence will keep up the illusion that he is only too thrilled to be here, to be obtaining intimate knowledge of the man who’s offered to make at least a few of his dreams come true. “Tell me, what sort of death does someone of my ‘stature’ deserve, in your eyes?”

there’s a long silence and it stretches to the point where it pulls taut, tenses, leaves cyrus slightly uneasy and maybe a little worried. it’s not often that harlow is reduced to a lack of words -- he’s not even entirely sure if he’s ever reduced harlow to a lack of words before -- and he isn’t entirely sure whether he likes it or not, the lack of the doll’s voice filling the air. he watches the other’s expression carefully, systematically, judging his reaction to the place with a close eye. it seems positive.

there’s some sort of emotion in harlow’s eyes when he turns and it’s hard to tell whether it’s genuine or not; it’s usually quite hard to tell whether the things harlow does or says are genuine or not, he muses for a moment, but now especially more so than other times. “i did do this, for you,” he murmurs, and it’s not completely untrue. cyrus doesn’t hold this place dearer than he does any other spot in the vale -- it’s his home, yes, he lives here and breathes here and spends almost all of his time here, but he doesn’t find much solace anywhere in particular. that doesn’t mean that he has to tell harlow that -- not if it helps him with appealing to what empathy there might be between them.

cyrus’ head tips to the side into the touch of the finger that runs along his cheek, a soft exhale of breath just grazing through the spaces between his teeth as his mouth parts. he chuckles, softly, tongue slipping out to wet where his lips have dried out, “you really want to hear about my opinion on your death, my dear? that seems like an awfully morbid request, even for someone of these parts.”

he takes another deep breath and swallows, reaches forward to cup harlow’s jaw just gently in his palm and thumb over his cheek, ever so gentle with each of his touches. he blinks and it’s slow, the curl of his mouth even more languid, crooked, “you do know i’d never desire to kill you, correct? it’s not something i would ever particularly seek out to do.” cyrus hums and his fingers curl along the underside of harlow’s chin, along his throat, teeth sinking into the plush of his own bottom lip, “that’s not to say i would be any less thoughtful with it, of course.”

[twilahasbecks]

a new domain.

[udxcyrus]

( udxharlow ):

    “Why have you brought me here?” he asks Cyrus, turning his head to speak over the curve of his shoulder. “If I didn’t know better I’d say you had wicked intentions.”

when harlow turns to wave a finger at him, all scolding and discipline, all he can do is smile. he takes the doll’s hand into his and leans forward to just brush his lips over the tip of the digit, chuckling, “be patient and bigger and better things will come to you, my love.” cyrus had never thought of riches as something he really ever had a desire for -- he’s always been fine with living day to day, with thinking of the now and not the tomorrows. it’s worked thus far but he does wonder, if only briefly, if the next step to keeping harlow’s company is to give him more, to impress him with a room full of pretty things for him to keep that cyrus has given to him, earned for him, instead of just a handful of things he picks off and stores away for whenever he meets the boy again on chance.

he has to admit, the idea of harlow in a bed that belongs to him (perhaps swathed with clothes that belong to him, scent that belongs to him, bruises that belong to him) is much more appealing than he would like to admit. he wonders yet again if the pride he feels from even simply the ring on harlow’s finger would multiply -- concedes that it would, would probably triple, and then ponders if it’s unhealthy, how much the idea of spoiling harlow into his submission attracts him. (it most definitely is.)

cyrus chuckles softly, half to himself, “don’t worry, harlow. if i had wicked intentions i’d have brought you somewhere less.. open. somewhere much more important, as well, for someone of your stature.” he steps up behind the taller and wraps delicate fingers round his delicate shoulders, twisting him a quarter-turn to the right towards what he’d actually wanted to show off. the statue stands high, the water falling in soft, muted splashes that fade quickly into background noises. “trust me, i do my dirty work in much.. less of a pretty place.”

he stares up at the stone carving, the tears pouring from the femme’s eyes, tone musing, “no matter how pretty of a last sight this would be, i prefer a place with much less distraction -- so the last image in your eye would be only one of myself.”

[udxcyrus]

⌲ masked ` cyhk

[udxcyrus]

( udxhakyeoncallaghan ):

“Don’t worry it will be once it is finished.” Hakyeon reassured the other. “So your name…I don’t believe that you told me what it was. What it is that you are on this land. You already know about me but if you are to watch…I need to know about you.” The boy narrowed his eyes at the other as if trying to figure them out. 

“You almost look like an innocent type on this island but I know better. There have been people before you that had admired my work and tried to steal it for themselves. I’m sure you never heard of them before now have you? That’s because I made sure to take care that they were never heard from ever again is that understood?” 

“cyrus,” he replies with ease, not bothering with an alias -- while long ago he may have, he thinks that having his name associated with the things he does has either already happened or is bound to along with time. there’s no use preventing the inevitable, “i’m a hare, of the vale of tears, and i don’t think i have much purpose in this land. at least not yet.”

his smile is wry and he does his best to look at least the littlest bit intimidated -- hakyeon is about as scary as a dandelion, seemingly as strong as the wind that could blow it away. nothing but amusement stirs in him, “don’t worry, dearest, i’m not here to steal. only to admire, perhaps to learn at most.”