Harper
I've grown a mouth so sharp and cruel
It's all that I can give to you, my dear
It's all that I can give to you, my dear
It's not something he has ever considered before, and Harper has to hum quietly to himself as he contemplates it briefly. Once, he would have entertained the idea of something star-themed, but he has lost his way from the side of his herald - from all of them - and he finds himself too monstrous to augment any virtues. "Nothing would be best," he admits gruffly, mentally shying away from anything so glorious and embellishing as a title when he still recoils in shame over abandoning his post even now. "Everything I would have wanted to be known for means nothing in Caido." A clear sign he's an Outlander. Again he grieves for the talents and passions he'd once held, but it evaporates like smoke beneath Thorn's come-hither tone and the weight of their newly connected hands.
This is why he does it. This is why he keeps coming back; nothing can bury those thoughts faster than someone touching him.
"Then call me Harper, please." None of that Stalwart business. He busies himself with tracing Thorn's inked arms as he's led to one of the rooms, crossing the threshold and letting his distracted mind drum up his desires with little active input.
He doesn't think about how it must look to Thorn; a penthouse suite on a skyscraper overlooking the city that used to be his. A winding river not far from the base of the building, lit up by sunrise - never sunset. All of Harper's work had always been done at night after all. The exterior windows are a wall unto themselves, floor-to-ceiling, and the city sprawls out beyond. His bedroom had not been in this room, but the round bed and the navy silk sheets are the same as what had lived there. Harper turns to beckon Thorn forward, used to the pain that this view always inspires given how frequently he revisits it in the House of Midnight.
This is why he does it. This is why he keeps coming back; nothing can bury those thoughts faster than someone touching him.
"Then call me Harper, please." None of that Stalwart business. He busies himself with tracing Thorn's inked arms as he's led to one of the rooms, crossing the threshold and letting his distracted mind drum up his desires with little active input.
He doesn't think about how it must look to Thorn; a penthouse suite on a skyscraper overlooking the city that used to be his. A winding river not far from the base of the building, lit up by sunrise - never sunset. All of Harper's work had always been done at night after all. The exterior windows are a wall unto themselves, floor-to-ceiling, and the city sprawls out beyond. His bedroom had not been in this room, but the round bed and the navy silk sheets are the same as what had lived there. Harper turns to beckon Thorn forward, used to the pain that this view always inspires given how frequently he revisits it in the House of Midnight.
I know you mean well, But I'm not a vessel for your good intent
My teeth will only cut your lips, my dear
My teeth will only cut your lips, my dear
